WALT   WHITMAN 


THE  POET  OF  THE 
WIDER   SELFHOOD 


WALT  WHITMAN 


THE  POET  OF  THE  WIDER 
SELFHOOD 


BY 

MILA  TUPPER  MAYNARD 


CHICAGO 

CHARLES  H.  KERR  &  COMPANY 
1903 


<?J 
w(* 

Hi- 1 


COPYRIGHT,  1902 
BY  MILA  TUPPER  MAYNARD 


R.   DONNELLEY   &   SONS   COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  MAN  -                     -      7 

II.  THE  COPIOUS  PERSONAL  SELF  -  19 

III.  THE  COSMIC  SELF      -  -    31 

IV.  THE  ETERNAL  SELF  43 
V.  "EVEN  THESE  LEAST"  -    55 

VI.  THE  LARGER  WOMAN      -  65 

VII.  THE  LARGER  MAN      -  -    77 

VIII.  YOUTH,  MATURITY,  AGE  -  89 

IX.  UNITY  WITH  NATURE  -  -    99 

X.  DEMOCRACY  113 

XI.  AMERICA  -  123 

XII.  COMRADESHIP        -  -        137 


173126 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Man 


WALT   WHITMAN 


I. — A  Glimpse  of  the  Man 

"  Convict  Whitman  of  any  narrowness  or  partiality 
whatever  and  you  strike  him  a  fatal  blow.  The  one  thing 
he  must  be  to  make  good  his  claim  is  to  be  all-inclusive 
of  humanity."— John  Addington  Symonds. 

"  Walt  Whitman  is  the  best,  most  perfect,  example 
the  world  has  so  far  had  of  the  Cosmic  Sense." — Richard 
Maurice  Burke. 

Walt  Whitman  is  an  offshoot  of  some  of  the 
oldest  American  families.  For  many  genera 
tions  his  ancestors  had  lived  upon  Long  Island 
and  were  Dutch  and  English.  Upon  one 
side  an  ardent  Quaker  strain  is  found. 

Born  in  1819,  his  death  in  1892  found  an 
old  man  who  had  breathed  to  the  full  the  rich 
est  maturity  of  a  marvelous  century.  The 
experiences  of  the  poet's  life  were  well  adapted 
to  that  ideal  of  inclusive  knowledge  and  sym 
pathy  which  controlled  his  thought.  He 
spent  most  of  his  life  in  the  great  cities  of 
New  York,  Brooklyn,  Washington,  and  Cam- 


8  Walt  Whitman 

den,  where  the  surging  of  multitudinous 
human  interests  fascinated  and  awed  him  un 
ceasingly. 

For  several  years  he  wandered  in  the  then 
Far  W.est,  living  in  New  Orleans  for  some 
time,  but  experiencing  many  forms  of  rough 
life  through  the  pioneer  wilds  of  the  Missis 
sippi  Valley.  Even  earlier  he  had  taught 
school  in  the  country  regions  of  the  East,  see 
ing  the  life  of  all  as  only  the  ' ' boarding  around" 
custom  of  those  days  made  possible. 

In  occupations  he  was  as  inclusive  as  in  all 
else;  farmer,  teacher,  traveler,  printer,  editor, 
carpenter,  mechanic,  writer,  nurse  in  army 
hospitals,  clerk  in  government  offices — he  was 
all  of  these  at  times,  and  never  allowed  any 
activity  to  preoccupy  him  so  that  he  was  not 
first  of  all  a  lover  of  human  beings. 

Wherever  there  was  humanity,  his  affec 
tions  were  enlisted. 

The  less  a  man  or  woman  was  convention 
alized  or  artificially  cultured,  the  more  his  in 
terest  was  aroused.  Manhood  in  spontaneity, 
and  natural  vigor  always  impressed  him  with 
reverential  respect.  With  this  attitude,  all 
occupations  and  all  experiences  became  rich 
harvests  of  broadened  sympathies  and  living 
knowledge. 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Man 


The  army  hospital  service  of  Walt  Whitman 
served  a  needed  purpose  in  uniting  him  to  the 
people  of  his  day  and  country. 

His  passion  of  passions  was  love  of  America 
and  of  his  countrymen.  But  the  publication 
of  " Leaves  of  Grass,"  in  1855,  had  brought 
upon  him  the  most  severe  criticism. 

Contempt  or  disgust  had  met  his  new  out 
look  and  new  method.  The  devoted  nurse, 
loving  and  beloved  of  the  boys  in  blue,  was 
a  figure  which  gradually  took  the  place  in 
popular  thought  of  the  shameless  ignoramus 
whom  they  pictured  as  the  author  of  the 
"Leaves." 

Those  who  came  in  personal  contact  with 
Whitman  were  always  impressed  with  the  calm 
greatness,  spotless  cleanliness,  and  quiet  ten 
derness  of  the  man.  This  impression  which 
the  personal  friend  could  gain  all  the  world 
may  feel  in  equal  measure  through  a  study  of 
the  records  of  his  life  among  the  wounded 
soldiers. 

He  goes  among  them  first  seeking  a  brother 
whom  report  has  placed  in  serious  danger. 
He  cannot,  after  seeing  the  distressing  need, 
leave  the  others,  and  for  several  years,  until 
his  own  health  is  undermined,  he  gives  him 
self  entirely  to  the  men. 


io  Walt  Whitman 

He  does  not  serve  as  official  nurse  or  in  any 
regular  capacity,  but  reserves  himself  for 
the  innumerable  offices  which  others  cannot 
render.  He  is  always  freshly  dressed,  strong 
voiced,  full  of  cheer.  He  knows  when  dis 
couragement  and  loneliness  are  causing  deeper 
wounds  than  bullet  gash.  He  knows  when 
the  strong  natured  man  yearns  for  the  kiss 
and  caress  as  much  as  a  child  in  arms,  and 
gives  such  gracious  benediction  with  ready 
tenderness. 

He  is  absolutely  fearless,  going  amid  con 
tagion  from  which  others  shrink,  with  scarcely 
a  thought,  because  he  "felt  to  do  so." 

This  boyish  confession  to  his  mother  reveals 
much:  "Mother,  I  have  real  pride  in  telling 
you  that  I  have  the  consciousness  of  saving 
quite  a  number  of  lives  by  keeping  the  men 
from  giving  up,  and  being  a  good  deal  with 
them.  The  men  say  it  is  so,  and  the  doctors 
say  it  is  so,  and  I  will  candidly  confess  I  can 
see  it  is  true,  though  I  say  it  myself.  I 
know  you  will  like  to  hear  it,  mother,  so  I  tell 
you." 

The  physical  perfection  of  Walt  Whitman 
was  always  remarked  by  those  who  saw  him 
prior  to  this  hospital  experience.  Thereafter, 
while  the  outline  and  general  bearing  always 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Man  1 1 

gave  the  impression  of  a  fine  physique,  he  was 
in  reality  partially  paralyzed  and  much  of  an 
invalid. 

So  large  a  part  of  Whitman  philosophy  had 
centered  in  a  glorification  of  humanity  as  an 
incarnation  of  strength  and  power  that  it  was 
peculiarly  hard  that  he  should  have  lost  his 
physical  robustness.  In  spite  of  this  and  in 
spite  of  poverty  also,  the  man  did  not  lose  in 
poise  or  sweetness  of  spirit. 

"Specimen  Days"  was  written  during  the 
pressure  of  these  misfortunes. 

Burke  says  of  this:  "It  is  the  sanest  and 
sweetest  of  books,  the  brightest  and  halest 
diary  of  an  invalid  ever  written."  Up  to  the 
last  his  courage  and  charity  never  wavered. 

He  was  as  pleased  as  a  child  over  any  word 
which  indicated  appreciation  of  his  work,  but 
was  never  troubled  or  at  all  affected  by  cen 
sure  or  misunderstanding. 

He  regarded  his  writing  not  as  literature, 
but  as  the  expression  of  a  religion.  It  was  a 
"cause"  to  him,  and  all  that  indicated  an 
understanding  of  his  thought  rejoiced  him  as 
an  advancement  of  this  cause. 

Friends  came  slowly.  Emerson,  however, 
welcomed  the  new  writer  at  the  outset  with 
full  appreciation. 


12  Walt  Whitman 

"Americans  may  now  return  from  Europe," 
he  said,  "for  unto  us  a  man  is  born." 

In  England  appreciation  came  faster  than 
at  home — possibly  because  England  expects 
the  outlandish  from  America,  and  possibly 
because  editions  were  published  there  which 
omitted  the  extreme  forms  of  Whitman's 
realism. 

Among  his  ardent  admirers  have  been  some 
of  the  most  striking  figures  in  modern  times. 
Each  year  adds  to  the  number  of  those  who 
regard  themselves  as  disciples  of  the  Whitman 
gospel.  This  band  includes  most  of  the 
ardent  young  workers  in  American  art,  litera 
ture,  and  reform.  Among  the  older  and  more 
mature  admirers  are  John  Addington  Symonds, 
of  England,  and  John  Burroughs,  of  America. 
One  a  scholar  of  most  classic  mold — an  author 
ity  in  the  literature  of  half  a  score  of  lan 
guages;  the  other  pre-eminently  a  nature 
lover  and  artist,  a  scientist  in  the  realm  of 
"whatsoever  things  are  lovely." 

Professor  Symonds  confesses  that  Whitman 
rescued  him  from  the  dry  rot  of  scholastic 
dilettantism  and  negative  skepticism,  and 
brought  him  in  touch  with  humanity  and 
thrilled  him  with  cosmic  enthusiasm.  "Leaves 
of  Grass,"  he  said,  influenced  him  more  than 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Man  13 

any  book  except  the  Bible — more  than  Plato; 
more  than  Goethe. 

"Speaking  about  Whitman  is  like  speaking 
about  the  universe,"  Mr.  Symonds  affirms, 
referring  to  the  vastness  of  his  scope  and  the 
mystery  and  exhaustlessness  of  his  message. 

What  is  more  remarkable,  Mr.  Symonds, 
while  deprecating  some  elements  in  Whitman's 
style,  stakes  his  reputation  as  a  literary  critic 
upon  the  genuine  poetical  quality  of  most  of 
this  poet's  work. 

John  Burroughs's  study  of  Whitman  is  a 
poem  in  itself,  and  leaves  no  doubt  that  the 
critic  is  a  poet,  whether  Whitman  is  one  or  not. 

He  regards  Whitman  as  a  prototype  of  a 
new  order  in  literature  and  in  human  dynam 
ics — a  prophet  of  a  new  religious  outlook, 
akin  to  cosmic  forces.  "I  believe,"  he  says, 
"that  Whitman  supplies  in  fuller  measure 
that  pristine  element,  something  akin  to  the 
unbreathed  air  of  mountain  and  shore,  which 
makes  the  arterial  blood  of  poetry  and  lit 
erature,  than  any  otherf  modern  writer." 
Burroughs  asserts  also  that  there  is  "a  rapidly 
growing  circle  of  those  who  are  beginning  to 
turn  to  WThitman  as  the  most  imposing  and 
significant  figure  in  our  literary  annals." 

The  present  time  is  marked  by  a  new  out- 


14  Walt  Whitman 

reaching  in  sympathy  and  understanding. 
To  this  generation  then,  whatever  its  verdict 
upon  the  art  of  Whitman,  his  spirit  and  mess 
age  will  appeal  with  ever  increasing  force. 

Here  is  found  that  reverence  for  one's  own 
nature  which  magnifies  its  divinity  and  unlim 
ited  potency.  Here  is  that  conscious  oneness 
with  the  All  of  Things — the  cosmic  selfhood 
which  is  the  blessedness  of  all  religions,  but 
the  peculiar  heritage  of  the  modern,  science- 
taught  faith.  Here  is  the  confident  assur 
ance  of  the  eternal  identity  of  the  self  in  an 
enlarging  immortality.  Here  is  patriotism, 
made  at  one  with  all  radiant  ideals  of  human 
unity  and  evolving  harmony. 

In  these  poems  is  such  a  conception  of 
democracy  as  only  the  Christ-like  lovers  of 
"these  my  brethren,  even  these  least"  can 
understand.  In  them  we  find  the  larger 
womanhood  struck  out  in  magnificent  out 
lines — a  challenge  to  undreamed  power  and 
strength. 

Here  we  find  manhood  claiming  its  own 
in  tenderness  and  gentle  sympathy  as  well  as 
in  potency  and  might.  Wider  sympathies 
are  here.  The  past  is  never  spurned.  Irony 
has  no  place.  All  has  come  by  the  gracious 
privilege  of  blunder  and  half  success. 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Man  15 

Even  evil  is  given  its  beatitude  in  the  all- 
inclusive  sympathies  of  this  world  lover. 

Outer  nature,  of  tree  and  bird  call,  as  well 
as  in  star  sweep  and  earthquake,  are  made 
part  and  parcel  of  the  one  beauty  and  order 
which  man  incarnates. 

In  these  aspects  we  shall  study  these  poems 
of  the  poet  of  the  wider  self. 


The  Copious  Personal  Self 


II.  —  The  Copious  Persona]  Self 

I  announce  a  life  that  shall  be  copious,  vehement, 
spiritual,  bold. 

Absurd  egotism  seemed  to  early  critics  of 
Whitman's  poems  to  mark  all  of  his  work. 

To  have  an  author  give  his  own  name  to  his 
chief  poem  and  have  the  personal  pronoun  the 
chief  character  on  every  page,  whatever  the 
title  of  the  poem,  was  something  new  and  too 
absurd  for  patience,  it  was  thought. 

This  is  a  feature  of  his  general  method  and 
outlook  which  the  student  of  his  poems  must 
master  at  the  outset  or  find  little  that  is  worth 
while. 

Whitman  was  possessed  with  the  fact  of 
man's  divinity. 

So  much  is  said  upon  this  subject  in  these 
latter  days,  that  humanity's  divinity  is  some 
thing  of  a  truism,  little  as  its  full  significance 
is  generally  realized.  Forty  years  ago  it  was 
rarely  admitted,  even  as  a  theory.  Whitman 
accepted  this  as  a  truth,  pondered  over  it, 
delighted  in  it,  became  intoxicated  with  its 
wondrous  and  dynamic  import. 
19 


20  Walt  Whitman 

He,  then,  was  an  out-cropping  of  the  Deity. 
He  was  a  part  of  divine  power.  His  nature 
was  a  test  and  revelation  of  infinite  nature. 
All  the  mystery  and  beauty  of  experience  as 
it  came  aroused  in  him  the  ardor  and  devo 
tion  of  religious  abandon. 

But  each  human  being  equally  incarnates 
the  'supreme  life  of  all.  No  one  then  can  be 
commonplace.  Each  is  an  object  of  adoration 
and  reverence.  All  that  is  great  or  good  or 
heroic  or  wise  in  one  is  the  birthright  and  final 
attainment  of  each.  Yea,  more  than  the  high 
est  has  guessed  is  the  lowest  sometime  to 
attain. 

Painters  have  painted  their  swarming  groups,  and  the 

center  figure  of  all 
From  the  head  of  the  center  figure  spreading  a  nimbus 

of  gold-colored  light, 
But  I  paint  myriads  of  heads,  but  paint  no  head  without 

its  nimbus  of  gold-colored  light, 
From  my  hand,  from  the  brain  of  every  man  and  woman 

it  streams,  effulgently  flowing  forever. 

Why  should  I  wish  to  see  God  better  than  this  day? 
I  see  something  of  God  each  hour  of  the  twenty-four, 
In  the  faces  of  men  and  women  I  see  God,  and  in  my 

own  face  in  the  glass. 
And  nothing  —  not  God  —  is  greater  to  one  than  one's 

self  is. 

All  the  records  of  Zeus  and  Odin,  of  Brahma 
or  Buddha  do  not  bring  humility  to  him. 


The  Copious  Personal  Self          2 1 

Whatever  mankind  has  known  or  imagined 
of  divine  achievement  must  be  simply  a  token 
of  what  may  be  for  all. 

Accepting  the  rough,  deific  sketches  to  fill  out  bet 
ter  in  myself  —  bestowing  them  freely  on  each  man  or 
woman  I  see. 

After  picturing  tenderly  countless  exhi 
bitions  of  heroism  and  nobleness  he  affirms: 

These  become  mine  and  me  every  one  —  and  they 
are  but  little,  I  become  as  much  more  as  I  like. 

This  claim  of  unity  with  all  does  not  stop 
with  claiming  the  highest. 

I  become  any  presence  or  truth  of  humanity  here, 

See  myself  in  prison  shaped  like  another  man, 

And  feel  the  dull  unintermitted  pain. 

Not  a  youngster  is  taken  for  larceny,  but  I  go  up,  too, 

and  am  tried  and  sentenced. 
Askers  embody  themselves  in  me,  and  I  am  embodied 

in  them, 
I  project  my  hat,  sit  shamefaced  and  beg. 

In  his  own  person  he  "  intercedes  for  every 
person  born. ' '  He  would  have  all  these  affirm 
with  him. 

I  chant  the  chant  of  dilation  and  pride, 
We  have  had  ducking  and  deprecating  about  enough, 
I  show  that  size  is  only  development. 
Have  you  outstripped  the  rest?    Are  you  the  president? 
It  is  a  trifle  —  they  will  more  than  arrive  there  every  one 
and  still  pass  on. 
I 


22  Walt  Whitman 

The  self-reliance  urged   by  Emerson  is  ful- 
\^  rilled  by  Whitman  in  startling  literalness. 

He  believes  in  his  own  message  with  un 
swerving  assurance,  and  does  not  shift   from 
\\     what  he  feels  is  his  own  peculiar  path,  even 
when  Emerson  himself  urges  a  modified  form. 

I  know  that  I  am  august, 

I  do  not  trouble  my  spirit  to  vindicate  itself  or  be  under 
stood, 

I  see  that  the  elementary  laws  never  apologize; 

I  reckon  I  behave  no  prouder  than  the  level  I  plant  my 
house  by,  after  all. 

This  self-confidence  he  yearns  to  make  each 
one  of  all  the  race  feel  each  for  himself. 

O,  the  joys  of  a  manly  selfhood! 

Personality  —  to  be  servile  to  none  —  to  defer  to  none  — 

not  to  any  tyrant,  known  or  unknown, 
To  walk  with  erect  carriage,  a  step  springy  and  elastic, 
To  look  with  a  calm  gaze,  or  with  a  flashing  eye, 
To  speak  with  a  full  voice  out  of  a  broad  chest, 
To  confront  with  your  personality  all   the  other  per 
sonalities  of  the  earth. 

The  poem,  "To  You,  Whoever  You  Are," 
is  an  epitome  of  this  and  much  besides  in  the 
peculiar  burden  of  Whitman  to  his  kind.  Its 
message  is  to  each  one,  especially  to  the  man 
or  woman  who  feels  alone,  uncounted,  useless. 
In  it  he  appeals  with  personal  passion  to  each 
uncounted  person  in  the  concrete.  They  have 


The  Copious  Personal  Self          23 

been  lost  to  themselves  in  the  rush  of  affairs, 
but  he  looks  through  to  the  soul  and  finds  the 
real  man  or  woman.  While  others  do  not 
understand  he  will  understand.  While  others 
find  imperfections  he  will  see  only  the  perfect. 

I  only  am  he  who  places  over  you  no  master,  owner, 
better,  God,  beyond  what  waits  intrinsically  in 
yourself  — 

O,  I  could  sing  such  grandeurs  and  glories  about  you! 

You  have  not  known  what  you  are. 

He  assures  them  that  no  glory  or  power 
anywhere  that  is  not  for  this  one  person  who 
ever  he  may  be  whom  he  addresses. 

Every  endowment,  every  virtue,  all  the 
beauty,  pluck,  endurance  of  any  is  tallied  in 
this  imaginary  average  one  over  whom  he 
yearns. 

Whoever  you  are!  claim  your  own  at  all  hazards! 

Under  any  and  all  conditions  if  you  assert 
yourself,  all  hindrances  will  slip  away  and 
through  whatever  bogs  of  disposition  or  igno 
rance  "what  you  are  picks  its  way." 

The  quality  of  life  is  as  important  as  the 
courage  and  vehemence  with  which  it  is 
asserted. 

"Copious"  and  spiritual  it  must  be — large 
of  spirit — wide  as  all  sympathies  can  make  it, 


24  Walt  Whitman 

electric  at  every  pore  with  the  sensitive  thrills 
that  unite  to  all  nature,  all  humankind. 

Tender  as  he  is  of  all  men,  even  the  dullest 
and  the  most  shallow,  he  yet  challenges  them 
to  arouse  out  of  such  death  in  life  and  learn 
to  live  in  real  things. 

He  finds  many  walking  about  with  the  dimes 
of  death  on  the  eyelids,  liberally  spooning  the 
brains  to  feed  the  greed  of  the  belly ;  working 
with  the  trappings  of  life,  never  with  the 
reality. 

Tickets  buying,  taking,  selling,  and  then  to  the  feast  never 
once  going. 

All  this  torpid  poverty  to  the  best  in  life 
need  not  be.  Each  may  claim  whatever  he  is 
ready  to  appropriate. 

I  swear  the  earth  shall  surely  be  complete  to  him  or  her 

who  shall  be  complete! 
I  swear  the  earth  remains  broken  and  jagged  only  to  him 

or  her  who  remains  broken  and  jagged. 

The  poorest  in  dollars  may  by  richness  of 
feeling  take  possession  of  more  than  the 
"ticket-selling"  millionaire  knows  is  in  exist 
ence.  "For  you,  pocketless  of  a  dime,  may 
purchase  the  pick  of  the  universe." 

This  fullness  of  life  lies  in  freedom  from  the 
bonds  of  convention,  fear,  self-distrust,  and 


The  Copious  Personal  Self          25 

through  entering  into  the  love  and  joy  open 
to  all. 

Freedom  is  the  condition  of  all  real  life; 
love  and  joy,  the  substance  of  that  life  when 
it  is  found. 

"Whoever  walks  a  furlong  without  sym 
pathy  walks  to  his  own  funeral,  dressed  in  his 
own  shroud."  Sympathy,  without  pity — the 
sympathy  of  imaginative  oneness  of  life — 
the  sympathy  that  becomes  all  men  under  all 
circumstances — this  is  the  enlarging  life  of  love. 

Such  sympathy  swallows  up  even  the  nobler 
bondage  of  duty.  For  to  the  nature  alive  to 
the  living  selves  of  others,  duty  gives  place  to 
glad  spontaneity. 

What  others  give  as  duties,  I  give  as  living  impulses; 
(Shall  I  give  the  heart's  action  as  a  duty?) 

"A  Song  of  Joys"  fairly  splashes  in  an 
ocean  of  delights,  and  yet  all  this  exultation 
is  in  the  commonest  of  the  common  life  ex 
periences.  He  enters  into  the  life  of  all  kinds 
of  persons:  the  fisher  and  the  boatman,  delight 
ing  in  the  freedom  and  freshness  of  their  work, 
its  fragrance,  and  its  spur;  the  engineer's  pride 
and  delight  in  the  power  he  controls  and  the 
swiftness  he  secures;  the  horseman,  the  fire 
man,  even  the  "strong  brawned  fighter" — the 


26  Walt  Whitman 

pleasures  of  each  are  embraced  in  full  appreci 
ation. 

All  over  the  continent  the  poet's  imagina 
tion  carries  him,  seeking  the  delights  of  inland 
lake  and  stream,  of  the  forests  and  mountains. 
The  farmer,  the  miner,  soldier,  the  mother, 
the  child — the  peculiar  charm  in  the  experience 
of  each  is  caught  and  held  with  skillful  touch. 

And  among  all  none  is  more  delicious  than 
"the  joy  of  that  vast  elemental  sympathy 
which  only  the  human  soul  is  capable  of  gener 
ating  and  emitting  in  steady  and  limitless 
floods,"  or  the  ripe  joy  of  "my  soul  leaning 
poised  on  itself" — the  soul  which  has  caught 
the  sense  of  supremacy  over  circumstances  and 
calamities. 

Whitman  everywhere  expresses  this  poise 
y\  which  comes  from  unlimited  self-confidence 
and  appreciation  balanced  by  an  equal  regard 
for  the  potential  self  of  every  one  else. 

There  need  be  no  fear  of  an  egotism  along 
whose  whole  length  runs  sympathy  and  belief 
\V  in  mankind.  Moreover,  an  egotism  which 
yields  fullness  of  joy  is  thereby  proven  to  be 
off  the  level  of  petty  selfhood  on  the  plane  of 
the  universal  and  true. 

The  human  distinction  above  all  else  is 
power  to  grow,  on  and  on,  in  mind  and  soul 


The  Copious  Personal  Self          27 

and  will.  The  climax  of  one  vision  of  attain 
ment  when  reached  proves  only  the  stepping- 
stone  to  new  ranges  beyond. 

There  is  perfection  for  other  orders  in 
nature,  but  for  man,  infinite  reach  and  potency. 

This  truth  is  one  of  the  dynamic  forces  in 
the  poems  of  Robert  Browning;  it  is  equally 
an  all-pervading  atmosphere  in  Whitman. 

I  launch  all  men  and  women  forward  with  me  into 
the  Unknown. 

Each  must  travel  for  himself  into  this  un 
known.  His  hand  points  to  "landscapes  of 
continents"  and  to  them  leads  "a  plain  coun 
try  road."  "There  is  no  stoppage  and  never 
can  be  stoppage." 

There  is  a  thrill  inexpressible  in  the  bugle 
call  he  gives  for  this  journey  on  into  unmeas 
ured  accomplishment. 

He  lets  go  the  past  and  proceeds  to  "fill  the 
next  fold  of  the  future."  All  the  past  of  the 
universe  and  of  men  is  absorbed  into  the  life  of 
each,  and  in  each  is  the  promise  of  all  to  come. 

This  day,  before  dawn,  I  ascended  a  hill  and  looked 
at  the  crowded  heaven,  and  I  said  to  my  spirit,  When  we 
become  the  enfolders  of  those  orbs,  and  the  pleasure  and 
knowledge  of  everything  in  them,  shall  we  be  filled  and 
satisfied  then? 

And  my  spirit  said  No,  we  level  that  lift,  to  pass  and 
continue  beyond. 


28  Walt  Whitman 

Could  anything  more  graphically  and  awe 
somely  picture  the  challenge  which  evolution 
throws  to  humanity?  Grow,  enlarge,  it  says, 
be  and  become  in  unresting,  purposeful  prog 
ress,  or  you  go  the  way  of  the  extinct  species. 
The  future — immortality — belongs  to  him  who 
can  triumph  in  new  attempts  unendingly. 

After  me,  vista! 

O,  I  see  that  life  is  not  short,  but  immeasurably  long, 
I  henceforth  tread  the  world,  chaste,  temperate,  an  early 

riser,  a  gymnast,  a  steady  grower, 

Every  hour  the  semen  of  centuries  —  and  still  of  cen 
turies. 


The  Cosmic  Self 


III. —  The  Cosmic  Self 

For  I  believed  the  poets.     It  is  they 
Who  utter  wisdom  from  the  central  deep, 
And,  listening  to  the  inner  flow  of  things, 
Speak  to  the  Ages  out  of  Eternity. 

Lowell  in  this  voices  a  striking  fact.  The 
poets  have  been  the  prophets.  They  have, 
by  diving  deep  into  inmost  principles,  been 
able  to  see  the  essential  meanings  and  purport 
before  the  fact-searching  scientists  could  ascer 
tain  the  truths  coming  into  view,  and  genera 
tions  before  the  popular  mind  could  take 
hold  upon  their  value. 

Goethe,  though  his  specific  scientific  work 
was  almost  worthless,  outlined  the  general 
theory  of  evolution  with  a  master's  perspec 
tive.  The  mastery  was,  however,  that  of  the 
poet,  not  of  the  scientist.  Browning,  in 
"Paracelsus,"  published  in  1831,  drew  with 
a  true  artist's  stroke  the  vast  picture  of  evo 
lutionary  progress  with  a  symmetry  and  com 
pleteness  that  only  our  own  decade  has  verified 
in  definite,  classified  fact. 

The  readjustment  of  conceptions  of  man  and 
religion  to  new  knowledge  of  the  universe  has 


32  Walt  Whitman 

always  been  difficult.  The  old  theory  which 
made  the  earth  the  center  of  all  things  was 
deeply  rooted  in  popular  conceptions,  and  it 
required  a  painful  upheaval  to  make  the 
Copernican  theory  fit  into  theological  and 
poetical  ideals. 

The  evolutionary  theory  was  even  more 
troublesome  to  assimilate.  It  has  required 
half  a  century  to  make  even  a  beginning 
toward  that  end,  while  any  full  appreciation 
of  the  inspiring  import  of  the  new  outlook  is 
still  far  in  the  future. 

Walt  Whitman  will  appeal  strongly  to  the 
coming  generations  in  the  new  century,  for 
they  will  have  entered  fully  into  the  pregnant 
truths  of  nineteenth-century  science. 

He  does  not  represent,  with  Tennyson,  the 
transition  struggle  with  the  doubts  suggested 
by  the  revolutions  in  cosmic  knowledge.  He 
does  not  with  Browning  force  himself  from  his 
unshaken  citadel  of  faith  to  search  conscien 
tiously  for  the  dark  skepticism  which  attacks 
other  less  fortified  believers. 

He  has  taken  possession  of  the  whole  king 
dom  of  modern  truth,  and  is  oblivious  to  any 
other  land  except  as  the  home  of  observed  life 
to  be  appreciated  tenderly  for  the  evolving 
beauty  within  it. 


The  Cosmic  Self  33 

It  is  truly  puzzling  to  tell  how  he  gained  his 
grasp  of  evolutionary  conceptions.  Darwin 
did  not  publish  the  (( Origin  of  Species"  until 
1859.  Spencer's  first  elaboration  of  any  phase 
of  his  doctrine  was  published  in  the  same  year 
in  which  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  appeared.  In 
1852  Spencer  had  issued  a  general  statement, 
but  it  seems  hardly  credible  that  Whitman 
could  have  come  in  contact  with  so  obscure  a 
book. 

Nevertheless,  had  he  been  fully  cognizant  of 
every  scientific  fact  and  theory  discovered  or 
projected  up  to  the  moment  of  publication, 
his  work  would  be  quite  as  marvelous,  so  com 
pletely  has  the  evolutionary  universe  become 
absorbed  into  his  unconscious  thought. 

He  is  always  part  of  an  eternal  process; 
always  the  product  of  the  ages;  always  the 
result  of  eternal  beginnings;  always  the  chan 
nel  for  a  limitless  future. 

I  am  an  acme  of  things  accomplished  and  an  encloser  of 
things  to  be. 

My  feet  strike  an  apex  of  the  apices  of  the  stars, 

On  every  step  bunches  of  ages,  and  larger  bunches  be 
tween  the  steps, 

All  below  duly  traveled,  and  still  I  mount  and  mount. 

In  1874  Tyndall  startled  even  the  friends  of 
general  evolution  by  announcing  that  all  things 


34  Walt  Whitman 

have  come  to  be  from  the  potent  life  of  matter 
itself. 

All  that  exists  of  form  or  thought  or  emo 
tion  was  originally  involved  in  the  pregnant 
heart  of  the  original  star  mist,  he  affirmed. 
Since  then,  theologians,  as  well  as  philoso 
phers,  have  come  to  see  that  this  unques 
tioned  truth  is  full  of  beauty  and  divine  sig 
nificance. 

Twenty  years  earlier  than  Tyndall's  Belfast 
address,  when  any  respect  for  matter  was 
foreign  to  even  scholarly  thought,  Whitman 
sprang  with  joyous  unconsciousness  into  the 
unfamiliar  current. 

Afar  dowh  I  see  the  huge  first  nothing  —  I  know  I  was 

even  there; 

I  waited  unseen  and  always  and  slept  through  the  leth 
argic  mist, 
And  took   my  time   and  took  no  hurt   from   the  fetid 

carbon. 

Long  I  was  hugged  close  —  long  and  long, 
Immense  have  been  the  preparations  for  me, 
Faithful  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have  helped  me. 

Before  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother,  generations  guided 
me, 

My  embryo  has  never  been  torpid  —  nothing  could  over 
lay  it. 

For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb; 

The  long,  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on; 

Vast  vegetables  gave  it  sustenance; 


The  Cosmic  Self 35 

Monstrous  sauroids  transported  it  in  their  mouths  and 

deposited  it  with  care; 
All  forces  have  been  steadily  employed  to  complete  and 

delight  me; 
Now  I  stand  on  this  spot  with  my  Soul. 

There  is  in  Whitman  the  fullest  acceptance 
of  science  and  satisfaction  in  "its  word  of 
reality."  But  he  does  not  wait  apologetically 
until  science  can  tell  him  the  full  measure  of 
truth. 

The  scientists  do  an  important  service  in  an 
important  realm,  but  they  do  not  exhaust 
truth  nor  compass  the  whole  of  reality. 

Gentlemen,  I  receive  you,  and  attach  and  clasp  hands 
with  you, 

The  facts  are  useful  and  real  — they  are  not  my  dwell 
ing—I  enter  by  them  to  an  area  of  the  dwelling. 

His  own  dwelling  is  in  life  itself,  not  the 
properties  and  qualities — the  external  details 
with  which  science  must  deal. 

The  words  of  poems  are  the  tuft  and  final  applause  of 
science. 

After  the  Copernican  theory  was  estab 
lished,  it  was  hard  to  adjust  man's  dignity  to 
his  place  on  a  little  speck  in  the  boundless 
ocean  of  space. 

The  doctrine  of  evolution  has  in  the  same 
way  cowed  the  spirit  of  many  and  made  them 


36  Walt  Whitman 

feel  veritable  " worms  of  the  dust"  with  no 
suggestion  from  theology. 

There  is  no  such  transitional  and  forced 
humility  in  this  poet.  He  is  always  conscious 
of  the  immensity  of  things,  but  the  more 
huge  the  universe  the  more  uncompassed  he 
sees  the  nature  of  man. 

I  open  my  scuttle  at  night  and  see  the  far-sprinkled 

systems, 
And  all  I  see,  multiplied  as  high  as  I  can  cipher,  edge 

but  the  rim  of  the  farther  systems. 
My  sun  has  his  sun  and  round  him  obediently  wheels, 
And  greater  sets  follow,  making  specks  of  the  greatest 

inside  them. 

This  vastness  does  not  overawe  the  poet. 

I  know  I  have  the  best  of  time  and  space,  and  was  never 
measured,  and  never  can  be  measured. 

Sure  as  the  earth  swims  thro*  the  heavens,  does  every 
one  of  its  objects  pass  into  spiritual  results. 

Whoever  you  are! 

The  divine  ship  sails  the  divine  sea  for  you! 

Whoever  you  are!    You  are  he  or  she  for  whom  the  earth 

is  solid  and  liquid, 
You  are  he  or  she  for  whom  the  sun  and  moon  hang  in 

the  sky. 

I  will  confront  these  shows  of  the  day  and  night! 

I  will  know  if  I  am  to  be  less  than  they! 

I  will  see  if  I  am  not  as  majestic  as  they! 

I  will  see  if  I  am  not  as  subtle  and  real  as  they! 

I  will  see  if  I  am  to  be  less  generous  than  they! 


The  Cosmic  Self  37 

There  is  no  department  of  thought  in  which 
the  evolutionary  conception  is  more  penetrat 
ing  and  vivifying  than  in  history. 

To  the  true  historical  student  there  is  a  vital 
sense  of  law  and  growth — a  boundless  sweep 
of  cause  and  effect  which  is  quite  as  controll 
ing  as  that  felt  in  physical  science. 

This  "feeling  for"  growth  and  natural  devel 
opment  in  the  life  of  humanity  is  of  far-reach 
ing  effect.  It  gives  birth  to  understanding  of 
others,  to  sympathy  and  charity,  to  faith  in 
progress,  and  patience  with  slow  advance.  To 
Whitman,  with  his  faith  in  the  human  meaning 
of  the  whole  Cosmos  and  the  mighty  purport 
of  all  mankind,  the  history  of  human  develop 
ment  is  of  supreme  significance. 

Think  of  the  past. 

I  warn  you  that  in  a  little  while,  others  will  find  their 

past  in  you  and  your  times! 
The    race   is   never   separated  —  nor  man  nor  woman 

escapes, 
All  is  inextricable  — things,  spirits,  nature,  nations,  you 

too — from  precedents  you  came. 

But  even  history  cannot  be  celebrated  except 
as  a  past  which  has  entered  into  the  present. 
Social  evolution  is  full  of  interest,  but  is  seen 
always  as  a  part  of  that  marvelous  composite 
which  goes  to  make  up  you  and  me. 


38  Walt  Whitman 

I  was  looking  a  long  while  for  the  history  of  the  past  — 

And  now  I  have  found  it, 

It  is  in  the  present — it  is  this  earth  to-day, 

It  is  the  life  of  one  man  or  one  woman  to-day,  the  aver 
age  man  of  to-day; 

It  is  languages,  social  custom,  literatures,  arts, 

It  is  the  broad  show  of  artificial  things;  ships,  machinery, 
politics,  creeds,  modern  improvements,  and  the  in 
terchange  of  nations, 

All  for  the  average  man  of  to-day. 


This,  then,  is  the  secret  of  Whitman's  mag 
nificent  respect  for  each  individual  human 
being.  He  sees  him  as  the  incarnation  and 
interpretation  of  the  all  of  things.  He  sees 
each  soul  as  the  heir  to  all  the  wonder  and 
might  of  nature  and  the  product  of  ail  the 
ages  of  material  and  social  progress.  "The 
majesty  and  beauty  of  the  world  are  latent  in 
any  iota  of  the  world." 

In  his  thought,  which  is  the  thought  sup 
ported  by  all  truth,  the  human  soul  may  know 
its  own  life  enlarged  to  the  limitless  limits  of 
the  infinite — wide  as  creation — a  "Cosmos." 
The  unity  of  all  and  the  sanity  and  blessedness 
^of  all  is  Whitman's  theism.  This  is  his  faith 
in  God  and  a  radiant,  all  vivifying  faith  it  is! 

To  him  a  universe  sound  and  whole  to  the 
core  is  a  God-filled  universe. 

All  his  joy  in  the  vast  onward   sweep   of 


The  Cosmic  Self  39 

creation,  filled  with  truth  and  beauty,  is  adora 
tion  of  deity.  He  is  so  far  beyond  the  "grin 
and  bear  it"  attitude  of  many  in  their  accept 
ance  of  the  world  as  science  reveals  it,  that 
one  can  scarcely  realize  that  it  is  the  same 
order  of  things  in  which  he  moves. 

Here  is  warmth,  assurance,  the  rapt  ecstacy 
of  the  cloistered  devotee,  and  all  before  the 
universe  according  to  Kepler  and  Darwin ! 

"Who  has  made  hymns  fit  for  the  earth? 
For  I  am  mad  with  devouring  ecstacy  to  make 
hymns  for  the  whole  earth." 

You,  Earth  and  Life,  till  the  last  ray  gleams,  I  sing. 
Open  mouth  of  my  Soul,  uttering  gladness, 
Eyes  of  my  Soul,  seeing  perfection, 
Natural  life  of  me,  faithfully  praising  things, 
Corroborating  forever  the  triumph  of  things. 

I  say  Nature  continues  —  Glory  continues. 

I  praise  with  electric  voice, 

For  I  do  not  see  one  imperfection  in  the  universe. 

0  setting  Sun! 

1  still  warble  unto  you  unmitigated  adoration! 


The  Eternal  Self 


\\ 


IV.— The  Eternal  Self 

I  do  not  know  what  is  untried  and  afterward, 
But  I  know  it  is  sure,  alive,  sufficient. 

Whitman  is  a  rationalist  in  complete  degree. 
Authority  appeals  to  him  not  at  all.  He  is 
unconscious  that  there  is  a  "thus  saith"  any 
where  in  heaven  above  or  earth  beneath.  And 
yet  his  assurance  of  personal  immortality  is  so 
absolute  that  he  announces  the  tenets  of  this 
faith  with  the  oracular  dictum  of  prophet  and 
priest. 

He  does  not  presume  to  specify  and  analyze 
the  details  of  future  existence.  He  does  not 
mark  off  corner  lots  in  the  new  Jerusalem  and 
guarantee  the  lay  of  land.  He  contents  him 
self  with  general  principles  which  yet  cover  all 
that  is  essentially  of  worth. 

Life  is  always  seen  by  him  with  death  at  its 
side ;  but  not  as  a  ghastly  skeleton — always  as 
a  promise  and  a  benediction.  Death  to  him 
means  infinite  potency — the  guarantee  of  eter 
nal  meaning  for  all  the  events  and  realities  of 
earth. 


43 


44  Walt  Whitman 

I  do  not  know  what  follows  the  death  of  my  body, 
But  I  know  that  whatever  it  is,  it  is  best  for  me, 
And  I  know  well  that  whatever  is  really  me  shall  live 
just  as  much  as  before. 

In  the  light  of  the  somber  coloring  always 
given  to  death  in  the  thought  of  the  genera 
tions,  it  is  startling  to  note  how  Whitman 
draws  its  figure  in  the  most  brilliant  colors 
and  in  his  most  sunny  pictures. 

In  "A  Song  of  Joys"  he  sings  apean  to  "the 
beautiful  touch  of  death"  between  a  carol  to  the 
trees  and  another  to  the  delights  of  the' 'splash 
in  the  water"  and  the  "race  along  the  shore." 

In  the  exquisite  stanzas  beginning ' '  Splendor 
of  the  falling  day,  floating  and  filling  me,"  in 
which  he  carols  to  the  sun  and  "throbs  to  the 
brain  and  beauty  of  the  earth"  he  rejoices 
"in  the  superb  vistas  of  death."  In  another, 
celebrating  fruitage,  he  first  of  all  pays  hom 
age  to  "death  (the  life  greater),"  and  lets  fol 
low  upon  it  "seeds  dropping  into  the  ground — 
birth." 

To  turn  from  death  as  it  is  found  in  general 
literature  to  the  death  everywhere  present  in 
Whitman's  poems  is  like  facing  suddenly  west 
ward  at  the  time  of  sunset  glory  after  having 
accustomed  one's  eyes  to  the  pensive  shades 
of  the  eastward  heavens. 


The  Eternal  Self  45 

This  triumphant  assurance  is  not  based  upon 
elaborate  arguments.  All  of  life,  all  of  growth, 
all  of  mystery,  all  of  meaning,  is  an  argument 
to  him.  If  others  cannot  find  it  in  these  he 
cannot  convince. 

I  hear  you  whispering  there,  O  stars  of  heaven, 

O  suns!  O  grass  of  graves!   O  perpetual  transfers  and 

promotions. 
If  you  do  not  say  anything,  how  can  I  say  anything? 

The  assurance  within  him  is  inexpressible; 
no  dictionary  utterance  or  symbol  can  give  it 
voice,  but 

Something  it  swings  on  more  than  the  earth  I  swing  on. 
To  it  the  creation  is  the  friend  whose  embracing  awakes 

me. 

Do  you  see,  O  my  brothers  and  sisters? 
It  is  not  chaos  or  death  —  it  is  form  —  union,  plan  — 
It  is  eternal  life  —  it  is  happiness. 

If  one  confronts  Whitman  with  the  difficul 
ties  attendant  upon  immortality,  asserting  that 
life  apart  from  the  physical  body  is  hard  to 
understand  and  mysterious,  he  answers  with 
the  inexplicable  mystery  of  life.  Life  is  mysti 
cal,  but  it  is  real.  Surely  death  may  lead  to 
reality  quite  as  well.  There  is  joy  and  pur 
port  in  life  in  spite  of  mystery  and  miracle; 
shall  there  not  be  equal  joy  and  purport  in 
death? 


46  Walt  Whitman 

Is  it  wonderful  that  I  should  be  immortal,  as  every  one  is 

immortal? 

I  know  it  is  wonderful  —  but 
Come!  I  should  like  to  hear  you  tell  me  what  there  is  in 

yourself  that  is  not  just  as  wonderful. 
And  I  should  like  to  hear  the  name  of  anything  "between 

First-Day  morning  and  Seventh-Day  night 
That  is  not  just  as  wonderful. 

To  him  the  unthinkable  thing  would  be  that 
man  could  have  come  into  being  with  all  the 
marvelous,  mighty  past  incarnated  in  his 
nature,  capable  of  living  in  all,  enjoying  all, 
entering  into  the  vast  eternal  stretch  of  things, 
and  then  be  snuffed  out  just  when  he  is  begin 
ning  to  give  out  the  infinite  potency  within 
him. 

No  one  who  appreciates  the  human  soul,  as 
we  have  previously  seen  that  Whitman  does, 
could  fail  to  have  unlimited  confidence  in  its 
permanence  and  eternal  meaning. 

To  him,  immortality  is  never  the  misty, 
ocean-absorbed  conception  of  many  who  have 
been  nursed  upon  eastern  nirvana  or  western 
conservation  of  energy  notions. 

Eternal  life  to  Whitman  is  the  vigorous  per 
sonal  existence  of  a  clear-cut  identity. 

You  are  not  thrown  to  the  winds  —  you  gather  certainly 

and  safely  around  yourself, 
Yourself!  Yourself!  Yourself,  forever  and  ever! 


The  Eternal  Self  47 

The  soul,  as  Whitman  knows  it  to  be,  is  its 
own  answer  to  all  doubts.  Once  in  existence, 
eternity  is  its  destiny. 

It  is  enough,  O  soul, 
O  soul,  we  have  positively  appeared  —  that  is  enough. 

The  love  of  life  and  all  things  mundane  is 
so  strong  in  this  poet  that  he  is  almost  jeal 
ously  fearful  that  he  will  seem  to  be  deprecia 
ting  this  life  when  rejoicing  in  the  promise  of 
further  existence.  He  knows  he  shall  visit 
the  stars,  that  present  experiences  will  prove 
only  one  out  of  myriad  experiences,  but  he 
expects  to  find  nowhere  anything 

More  majestic  and  beautiful  than  I  have  already  found 
on  the  earth. 

He  has  no  doubt  but  the  new  house  he 
will  inhabit  will  be  good,  but  he  is  quite  in 
love  with  the  studs  and  rafters  of  this  one, 
which  has  grown  part  of  him. 

However,  in  the  poem,  " Night  on  the 
Prairies,"  he  reconsiders  his  hesitancy  to 
affirm  greater  things  to  come. 

In  the  open,  looking  at  the  stars,  it  all 
bursts  upon  him  anew  and  he  sees  how  infinite 
and  inconceivable  are  the  experiences  yet 
ahead. 


V\ 


48  Walt  Whitman 

Now  I  absorb  immortality  and  peace. 
I  admire  death  and  test  propositions. 
I  was  thinking  the  day  most  splendid  till  I  saw  what  the 

not-day  exhibited, 
I   was  thinking  this  globe  enough,  till  there  trembled 

upon  me  myriads  of  other  globes, 
O,  how  plainly  I  see  now  that  life  cannot  exhibit  all  to 

me  —  as  the  day  cannot, 
O,  I  see  that  I  am  to  wait  for  what  will  be  exhibited  by 

death. 


The  body  occupies  a  position  of  dignity  and 
significance  in  Whitman's  philosophy. 

Without  the  material  body  he  feels  the  per 
sonal  identity  could  never  have  reached  perfec 
tion.  The  soul  receives  ''identity  through 
materials,"  the  "temporary  use  of  materials 
for  identity's  sake"  are  expressions  character 
istic  of  many. 

Physical  birth,  he  says,  "is  to  identify  you. 
It  is  not  that  you  should  be  undecided,  but 
decided." 

It  is  not  strange,  then,  that  he  believes 
strongly  in  a  spiritual  body  which  is  now  pres 
ent  in  the  physical  form  and  which  will  con 
tinue  to  give  the  promoted  soul  a  habitation 
and  identity. 

I  do  not  doubt  that  from  under  the  feet  and  beside  the 
hands  and  face  I  am  cognizant  of,  are  now  looking 
faces  I  am  not  cognizant  of  —  calm  and  actual  faces. 


The  Eternal  Self  49 

I  do  not  doubt  that  interiors  have  their  interiors  and 
exteriors  have  their  exteriors  —  and  that  the  eye 
sight  has  another  eyesight,  and  the  hearing  an 
other  hearing,  and  the  voice  another  voice. 

O,  what  is  proved  to  me  this  day  beyond  cavil,  that  it 
is  not  my  material  eyes  which  finally  see 

Nor  my  material  body  which  finally  lives,  walks,  laughs, 
embraces,  procreates. 

After   speaking    of    the    discharge    of    his 
"voided  body"  at  death,  he  suggests: 
My  real  body  doubtless  left  to  me  for  other  spheres. 

The  future  toward  which  Whitman's  stimu 
lating  bugle  is  calling  us  is  a  virile,  purposeful 
one.  There  is  no  inane,  negative  monotony 
in  his  thought,  nor  cowardly  quiescence. 

Muscle  and  pluck  forever! 

What  invigorates  life  invigorates  death, 

And  the  dead  advance  as  much  as  the  living  advance, 

And  the  future  is  no  more  uncertain  than  the  present. 

In  "Song  of  Prudence"  is  as  noble  an  asser 
tion  of  true  value  as  could  be  penned.  The 
prudence  which  has  to  do  with  getting  and 
having,  with  appearance  and  indirection — 
drops  quietly  aside  "from  the  prudence  which 
suits  immortality,"  "charity  and  personal 
force  are  the  only  investments  worth  any 
thing." 

No  specification  is  necessary;    all  that   a   male  or 
female  does,  that  is  vigorous,  benevolent,  clean,  is  so 


50  Walt  Whitman 

much  profit  to  him  or  her,  in  the  unshakable  order 
of  the  universe,  and  through  the  whole  scope  of  it 
forever. 

It  is  only  rarely  that  there  is  in  these  poems 
any    recognition    that    any   one    can    or    does 
doubt.    When  there  is,  the  suggestion  is  tossed 
aside  with  ironical  denial. 
Do  you  suspect   death?     If  I  were  to  suspect  death, 

I  should  die  now; 
Do  you  think  I  could  walk  pleasantly  and  well  suited 

toward  annihilation? 

Again  he  affirms,  as  if  in  half  sarcastic  refer 
ence  to  the  attitude  of  others,  that  the  pur 
port  of  us  here  is  "not  a  speculation,  or  a 
bonmot,  or  reconnaissance' '  that  may  by  good 
luck  turn  out  well  or  may  be  retracted  under 
certain  contingencies. 

The  secret  of  this  absorbing,  all-conquering 
confidence  lies  in  his  confidence  in  the  all  of 
things — in  the  divine  inherency — in  God. 

There  is  little  here  which  even  suggests  a 
hard  and  fast  plan  by  an  outside,  throne-occu 
pying  deity — but  everything  to  show  how  the 
poet's  sense  of  a  God-filled  Cosmos  permeates 
his  every  other  ideal  and  belief. 

In  this  faith  in  an  All  Good  he  cannot  leave 
out  any  atom  of  humanity  from  the  ultimate 
triumph. 

Immortality  is  for  the  least  as  for  the  great- 


The  Eternal  Self  51 

est.  "Each  is  considered.  Not  a  single  one 
can  it  fail" — not  the  young  man,  or  young 
woman. 

Not  the  little  child  that  peeped  in  at  the  door,  and 
then  drew  back,  and  was  never  seen  again,  nor  the  old 
man  who  has  lived  without  purpose,  and  feels  it  with 
bitterness  worse  than  gall. 

.  .   .  Not  the  least  wisp  that  is  known. 

And  all  of  "these  least"  must  arrive  at  the 
highest  sometime.  A  few  giant  souls  will  not 
content  Walt  Whitman,  all  must  come  some 
time  to  the  same  estate.  "We  must  have  the 
indestructible  breed  of  the  best,  regardless  of 
time." 

A  faith  in  immortality  grounded  in  a  uni 
verse  pure  gold  all  through,  reinforced  by  un 
questioned  and  valiant  loyalty  to  human  nature 
in  every  aspect,  rests  upon  bedrock.  With 
this  foundation  we  cannot  wonder  at  the  jubi 
lant  affirmation  closing  the  poem,  "To  Think 
of  Time," 

I  swear  I  think  there  is  nothing  but  immortality! 

That  the  exquisite  scheme  is  for  it,  and  the  nebulous 

float  is  for  it,  and  the  cohering  is  for  it! 
And  all  preparation  is  for  it,  and  identity  is  for  it,  and 

life  and  death  are  altogether  for  it. 


"  Even  These  Least 


V.  —  "Even  These  Least" 

I  do  not  ask  who  you  are — that  is  not  important  to  me — 
You  can  do  nothing,  and  be  nothing,  but  what  I  will 

enfold  you. 
Recall    Christ,   brother   of    rejected   persons  —  brother 

of  slaves,  felons,  idiots,  and  of  insane  and  diseased 

persons. 

Whitman  has  been  the  most  misunderstood 
man  in  literature.  With  Puritanic  self-confi 
dence,  respectable  society  decided  instanter 
that  it  would  have  none  of  him.  What  mercy 
could  one  expect  who  would  calmly  announce 
himself  as  not  only  the  poet  of  goodness,  but 
the  poet  of  wickedness  as  well? 

He  affirms  of  himself  all  sorts  of  crime,  vice, 
and  contemptible  traits,  but  it  is  with  the  same 
unrelenting  readiness  with  which  he  asserts  his 
equality  with  potentates  and  seers,  with  saints 
and  gods;  and  the  one  attitude  no  more  indi 
cates  vaunting  depravity  than  the  other  reveals 
absurd  egotism. 

He  is   contending   for  race  unity,   for  the 
"vast  similitude"  that  interlocks  all,  and  does 
not  flinch  when  he  finds  wrong  and  folly  and 
misery  a  part  of  the  great  whole. 
55 


56  Walt  Whitman 

He  accepts  the  earth  as  he  finds  it  and  is 
bound  to  see  that  it  is  good. 

My  gait  is  no  fault-finder's  or  rejector's  gait; 
I  moisten  the  roots  of  all  that  has  grown. 

He  will  not  accept  anything  which  all  may 
not  possess,  even  self-imputed  virtue.  He 
feels  that  through  him  all  the  "long  dumb 
voices"  may  find  expression.  Slaves,  prosti 
tutes,  deformed  persons,  the  diseased  and 
despairing,  thieves  and  dwarfs,  all  find  in  him 
the  sympathetic  interpreter. 

In  all  the  "new  thought"  atmosphere,  noth 
ing  is  really  newer  than  the  attitude  it  is  help 
ing  to  secure  toward  wrong  doing.  True,  it  is 
no  newer  than  the  Judean  teachings  of  one 
who  is  supposed  to  be  the  teacher  of  Christen 
dom,  but  it  is  new  nevertheless. 

Walt  Whitman  startles  by  the  unfaltering 
utterance  which  he  gave  two  score  years  ago 
to  a  charity,  which  we  are  with  hesitancy 
feebly  trying  for  to-day. 

Phariseeism  has  been  a  cultivated  virtue  so 
long  that  it  takes  away  one's  breath  to  find  a 
man  who  thanks  the  Lord  so  fervently  that  he 
is  as  other  men  are,  and  with  studied  elabo 
ration  gives  us  long  categories  of  his  sins,  so 
that  we  may  have  no  doubt  that  he  knows 
whereof  he  speaks!  As  a  matter  of  fact, 


"  Even  These  Least "  57 

everyone  who  knew  Walt  Whitman  through 
out  his  life  believed  him  to  be  more  nearly 
clean  and  noble  in  all  thought  and  conduct 
than  any  but  the  very  few.  And  yet  in  his 
capacity  as  the  representative  of  each  and  all 
he  stoutly  asserts: 

I  own  that  I  have  been  sly,  thievish,  mean,  a  prevari 
cator,  greedy,  derelict; 

And  I  own  that  I  remain  so  yet. 

You  felons  on  trial  in  courts; 

You  convicts  in  prison  cells  —  you  sentenced  assassins, 
chained  and  handcuffed  with  iron, 

Who  am  I,  that  I  am  not  on  trial,  or  in  prison? 

Me,  ruthless  and  devilish  as  any,  that  my  wrists  are  not 
chained  with  iron,  or  my  ankles  with  iron? 

This  abounding  sympathy  and  freedom  from 
Pharisaic  judgment  is  not  based  upon  any  fail 
ure  to  appreciate  the  distinction  between  the 
good  and  the  evil. 

He  loves  the  good  with  a  natural  spontane 
ity  and  sees  so  clearly  the  rich  returns  brought 
by  the  high,  clean  life  that  he  can  have  only  a 
commiserating  tenderness  for  any  whose  un 
fortunate  blindness  has  made  them  go  wrong. 

He  no  more  judges  harshly  the  victim  of 
moral  blindness  than  of  bodily  disease.  The 
same  laws  by  which  insight  has  finally  come  to 
the  righteous  will  lead  each  stumbling  one  into 
clearer  light. 


58  Walt  Whitman 

The  difference  between  sin  and  goodness  is  no  delusion, 
he  affirms,  and  the  difference  lies  in  no  artifi 
cial  mandate,  but  is  the  difference  between  joy 
and  misery,  between  sweetness  and  gall. 

say  what  tastes  sweet  to  the  most  perfect  person;  that 
is  finally  right. 

Two  poems, ' '  Kosmos, "  or ' '  Gods, ' '  and  ' '  A 
Hand  Mirror,"  are  placed  side  by  side  in 
"Leaves  of  Grass"  with  no  suggestion  that 
they  are  related  to  each  other.  "Gods"  pict 
ures  a  full-grown  soul,  vigorous  to  be  and  to 
do — able  to  enter  into  the  joys  and  faiths  of  all 
the  universe.  "A  Hand  Mirror"  holds  the 
glass  up  to  one  who  has  burnt  out  the  gold  of 

life. 

Outside  fair  costume,  within  ashes  and  filth. 

The  ashes  and  filth  are  mirrored  with  a  hor 
rible  realism,  closing  with  no  sermon,  only — 
Such  a  result  so  soon;  and  from  such  a  beginning! 

This  clear-eyed  knowledge  of  the  full  black 
ness  of  the  night  of  wrong  does  not  make  him 
any  the  less  confident  when  he  urges  courage 
and  faith  upon  its  victims.  No  one  can  sink 
so  low  as  to  be  out  of  reach  of  his  extended 
hand  and  cheery  call. 

The  mockeries  are  not  you; 

Underneath  them,  and  within  them,  I  see  you  lurk; 

I  pursue  you  where  none  else  has  pursued  you: 


"  Even  These  Least  "  59 

The  shaved  face,  the  unsteady  eye,  the  impure  com 
plexion;  if  these  balk  others,  they  do  not  balk  me; 

The  pert  apparel,  the  deformed  attitude,  drunkenness, 
greed,  premature  death;  all  these  I  part  aside; 

I  track  through  your  windings  and  turnings;  I  come 
upon  you  where  you  thought  eye  should  never 
come  upon  you. 

Then  he  assures  them  that  the  best  the 
human  soul  can  attain  is  theirs. 

As  for  me,  I  give  nothing  to  anyone,  except  I  give  the 

like  carefully  to  you; 
I  sing  the  songs  of  the  glory  of  none,  not  God,  sooner 

than  I  sing  the  glory  of  you. 

A  saving  power  for  these  lies  in  the  persons 
who  can  see  the  real  man  " behind  and  through*  * 
the  " greasy  and  pimpled"  exterior.  Let  a 
man  "of  perfect  blood"  come  in  contact  with 
the  ' '  insulter,  the  angry  person, "  he  ' ' strangely 
transmutes  them. "  * '  They  hardly  know  them 
selves,  they  are  so  clean." 

The  puzzling  "Problem  of  Evil"  is  faced  by   > 
Whitman  with  no  shirking. 

I  sit  and  look  out  upon  the  sorrows  of  the  world,  and 
upon  all  oppression  and  shame. 

All  these  —  all  meanness  and  agony  without  end  —  I  sit 
ting,  look  out  upon, 

See,  hear,  and  am  silent.  \  \ 

But  he  promptly  reasserts  his  faith  that  it 
will  all  be  right  in  some  way.  "Nothing  fails 
its  perfect  return." 


60  Walt  Whitman 

O  me,  man  of  slack  faith  so  long! 
Standing  aloof  —  denying  portions  so  long; 
Me,  with  mole's  eyes,  unrisen  to  buoyancy  and  vision  — 
unfree. 

When  he  sees  with  full  horizon  he  knows 
that  in  an  evolving  humanity,  there  must  be 
half  development,  crude  outcroppings. 

He  learns  to  think  of  the  "diseased  and 
despairing,  of  thieves  and  dwarfs"  as  among 

Voices  of  cycles  of  preparation  and  accretion, 
And  of  the  threads  that  connect  the  stars — and  of  wombs, 
and  of  the  fatherstuff. 

The  character  dwarfs  are  simply  later  in  the 
process,  but  all  shall  "flow  and  unite."  The 
universe  is  in  order,  although  part  is  further 
advanced  than  others.  The  "twisted  skull 
waits,  and  the  watery  or  rotten  blood  waits," 
but  all  these  "far  behind  are  to  go  on  in  their 
turn." 

The  atheism  or  theism  of  recent  times  has 
left  the  question  of  origins.  The  believers 
and  unbelievers  may  be  known,  not  by  their 
opinion  as  to  how  the  universe  was  created, 
but  by  their  answer  to  the  questions.  What 
kind  of  a  universe  is  it?  Are  there  rotten 
places  in  it?  Has  the  good  any  eternal,  in 
trinsic  meaning  at  the  heart  of  things?  It  Is 


"Even  These  Least"  61 

by  this  test  that  Whitman  is  found  among  the 
most  devout  and  doubt-free  theists.  He  has 
no  faintest  question  but  that  all  is  essentially 
sound  and  sane  throughout  every  atom  of  the 
Cosmos. 

There  is  perfection  in  final  results,  if  not  in 
details  of  the  process.  Wherever  there  is  dis 
ease,  there  is  healing. 

Amelioration  is  one  of  the  earth's  words; 
The  earth  neither  lags  nor  hastens; 
It  has  all  attributes,  growths,  effects  —  latent  in  itself  from 
the  jump. 

"The  purifying  chemistry  of  nature"  might 
well  be  the  title  of  one  of  the  "Leaves." 
In  this  he  is,  at  first,  startled  by  the  earth — 
thinking  suddenly  of  the  disease  and  death 
which  has  been  buried  in  it.  How  can  there 
be  health  even  in  the  roots  of  spring?  The 
earth  is  a  veritable  mass  of  horrible  decay. 

Yet,  behold! 

The  grass  covers  the  prairies; 
The  bean  bursts  noiselessly  through  the  mould  in  the 

garden; 

The  delicate  spear  of  the  onion  pierces  upward; 
The  apple  buds  cluster  together  on  the  apple  branches. 
The  summer  growth  is  innocent  and  disdainful  above 

all  those  strata  of  sour  dead; 
What  chemistry! 
That  all  is  clean  forever  and  ever! 


62  Walt  Whitman 

Facing  frankly  all  appearances,  all  facts,  this 
prophet-poet  sounds  exultantly  the  pean  of 
jubilation:  All  is  good,  all  is  beauty,  all  is 
health  and  sanity. 

I  do  not  doubt  that  whatever  can  possibly  happen, 
anywhere,  at  any  time,  is  provided  for,  in  the  inherences 
of  things. 


The  Larger  Woman 


VI. —  The  Larger  Woman 

Daughters  of  the  Land,  did  you  wait  for  your  poet? 

Anticipate  the  best  women ; 

I  say  an  unnumbered  new  race  of  hardy  and  well-defined 

women  are  to  spread  through  all  These  States. 
I  say  a  girl  fit  for  These  States  must  be  free,  capable, 

dauntless,  just  the  same  as  a  boy. 

Whitman's  thorough-going  modernness  and 
adherence  to  the  laws  of  nature  and  freedom 
seem  to  have  no  limitations.  In  many  teach 
ers  we  revel  in  a  progressive  outlook  until  we 
run  full  tilt  upon  some  wall  of  conservatism — 
some  rock  of  retarded  development  which 
checks  enthusiasm  and  puts  up  the  guards  of 
caution.  He  at  times  violates  our  instincts  of 
taste,  to  many  noble  sentiments  he  gives  no 
response,  but  his  shortcomings  do  not  lie  in 
the  sterotyped  or  tradition-bound. 

He  may  not  see  all  that  there  is  in  the 
world,  but  what  he  sees  is  always  real — never 
the  phantom  arbitrarily  created  by  custom  or 
popular  opinion. 

In  his  attitude  toward  woman,  Whitman 
well  illustrates  his  prophetic  instinct.  Writ- 


66 Walt  Whitman 

ing  in  the  middle  of  the  century,  he  preceded 
the  agitation  for  woman's  educational,  indus 
trial,  and  political  opportunities.  Yet  he  took 
all  this  for  granted  and  leaped  past  the  tran 
sitional,  halting  stages  to  an  ideal  of  strength, 
freedom,  human  achievement,  and  matronly 
supremacy  such  as  another  century  will  under 
stand  better  than  our  own. 

It  is  not  in  woman's  name  that  Whitman 
demands  that  bars  be  withdrawn  and  cages 
removed.  It  is  in  the  name  of  humanity. 

The  race  of  human  creatures  are  destined  to 
match  the  majesty  of  the  universe.  In  human 
kind,  all  past  evolution  finds  its  culmination — 
all  the  cosmic  order  awaits  its  fruition. 

The  mothers  of  the  race  must  inaugurate 
the  uplift  of  the  race. 

The  women  of  the  race  must  live  out  their 
full  portion  of  this  mighty  destiny.  Sacrifice, 
dwarfing,  and  hampered  growth  are  not  neces 
sary  anywhere  in  the  order  of  things — every 
life  may  be  lived  out  to  the  full — must  be  so 
fulfilled,  if  the  child  of  that  life  is  not  to  be 
defrauded. 

In  the  name  of  that  maternity  by  which 
woman's  life  has  been  supposed  to  receive  its 
limitation,  the  poet  proclaims  the  obliteration 
of  all  limits. 


The  Larger  Woman  67 

The  following  poem  gives  all  the  deeper 
meaning  of  this  time  of  woman's  prophetic 
beginnings  of  growth : 

Unfolded  out  of  the  folds  of  the  woman  man  comes  un 
folded,  and  is  always  to  come  unfolded, 

Unfolded  only  out  of  the  superbest  woman  of  the  earth 
is  to  come  the  superbest  man  of  the  earth, 

Unfolded  only  out  of  the  friendliest  woman  is  to  come 
the  friendliest  man, 

Unfolded  only  out  of  the  perfect  body  of  a  woman  can  a 
man  be  form'd  of  perfect  body, 

Unfolded  only  out  of  the  inimitable  poem  of  the  woman 
can  come  the  poems  of  man, 

Unfolded  out  of  the  folds  of  the  woman's  brain  come  all 
the  folds  of  the  man's  brain,  duly  obedient, 

Unfolded  out  of  the  justice  of  woman  all  justice  is  un 
folded, 

Unfolded  out  of  the  sympathy  of  the  woman  is  all  sym 
pathy  ; 

A  man  is  a  great  thing  upon  the  earth,  and  through 
eternity  —  but  every  jot  of  the  greatness  of  man  is 
unfolded  out  of  woman; 

First  the  man  is  shaped  in  the  woman,  he  can  then  be 
shaped  in  himself. 

It  is  inevitable,  then,  that  Whitman  should 
delight,  not  in  feminine,  but  in  great  human 
qualities  in  woman. 

Her  equality  with  man  might  better  have 
been  taken  for  granted  than  frequently  reiter 
ated  in  specific  terms,  as  he  does,  but  perhaps 
he  could  not  be  too  definite  on  that  point  at 
the  time  he  wrote : 


68  Walt  Whitman 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  woman  the  same  as  the  man, 
And  I  say  it  is  as  great  to  be  a  woman  as  to  be  a  man, 
And  I  say  there  is  nothing  greater  than  the  mother  of 
men. 

No  separated  passages  can  give  adequate 
idea  of  the  fine,  vigorous  ideal  of  womanhood 
which  the  poet  everywhere  suggests.  Woman 
is  included  in  every  appeal — the  double  pro 
noun  is  always  used.  His  call  to  valiant  self- 
assertion  is  the  human  call,  never  the  masculine 
alone. 

The  sturdy  strength  of  mind  and  body  he 
delights  in  for  all. 

Sometimes,  however,  he  gives  a  special  refer 
ence  to  woman's  world-wide  activity.  Among 
the  things  he  delights  in  is: 

The  athletic  American  matron  speaking   in  public  to 
crowds  of  listeners. 

In  picturing  his  ideal  city,  among  many 
suggestions  spiritual  and  political,  he  speaks 
of  this  community  as  one 

Where  women  walk  in  public  processions  in  the  streets, 

the  same  as  the  men, 
Where  they  enter  the  public  assembly  and  take  places 

the  same  as  the  men,  and  are  appealed  to  by  the 

orators  the  same  as  the  men, 
Where  the  city  of  the  faithfulest  friends  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  cleanliness  of  the  sexes  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  healthiest  fathers  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  best-bodied  mothers  stands, 
There  the  greatest  city  stands. 


The  Larger  Woman  69 

It  is  not  strange  that,  with  his  passion  for 
the  organic  forces  and  underlying  potencies  of 
things,  Whitman  should  see  woman  as  the 
mother  more  often  than  in  any  capacity 
except  in  her  supreme  function  as  a  human 
entity. 

The  romantic  sentiment  is  wholly  lacking  in 
his  poems,  and  there  is  very  little  to  indicate 
appreciation  of  the  sweeter  phases  of  domestic 
sentiment,  but  universal  natural  functions  ap 
peal  to  him  powerfully.  The  mother  he  most 
often  thinks  of,  however,  is  the  elderly  woman. 
The  years  when  motherhood  means  most  to 
woman  herself — the  years  when  baby  hands 
press  moist  fingers  upon  the  pulsing  breast, 
and  little  feet  toddle  into  strong,  young  arms — 
is  not  often  reflected  in  these  poems. 

Perhaps  it  is  because  Whitman's  own 
mother  was  the  object  of  such  reverent  admi 
ration  to  him,  that  age  and  motherhood  are 
framed  together  in  his  pictures. 

The  old  face  of  the  mother  of  many  children! 

Whist!  I  am  fully  content. 

Behold  a  woman! 

She  looks  out  from  her  paper  cap  —  her  face  is  clearer 

and  more  beautiful  than  the  sky. 
She  sits  in  an  arm  chair  under  the  shaded  porch  of  the 

farm  house, 
The  sun  just  shines  on  her  old  white  head. 


70  Walt  Whitman 

Her  ample  gown  is  of  cream-hued  linen, 

Her  grandsons  raised  the  flax,  and  her  granddaughters 

spun  it  with  the  distaff  and  the  wheel. 
The  melodious  character  of  the  earth, 
The  finish  beyond  which  philosophy  cannot  go,  and  does 

not  wish  to  go. 
The  justified  mother  of  men. 

The  "eternal  womanly"  appeals  to  this  man 
no  less  because  of  his  universal  ideal  of  "the 
human  creature  of  the  mother  sex." 

Think  of  womanhood,  and  you  to  be  a  woman ; 
The  creation  is  womanhood, 
Have  I  not  said  that  womanhood  involves  all? 
Have  I  not  told  how  the  universe  has  nothing  better  than 
the  best  womanhood? 

The  stanza  opening  "Her  shape  arises"  pic 
tures  a  womanly  presence  passing  amid  gross- 
ness  and  crime.  She  does  not  go  in  ignorance 
and  shallow  innocence,  but  with  clear-sighted 
knowledge  of  all  the  world  holds  of  evil  and 
temptation.  She  does  not  draw  away  her 
skirts.  She  knows  the  wrong,  but  "she  is 
none  the  less  considerate  or  friendly  there 
fore."  Her  mere  presence  excites  the  love  of 
these  supposedly  depraved  ones.  "She  is  the 
best  beloved — it  is  without  exception — she  has 
no  reason  to  fear,  and  she  does  not  fear." 
All  that  a  lesser  woman  would  shrink  from 
does  not  offend  her.  "She  is  possessed  of 
herself." 


The  Larger  Woman  71 

She  receives  them  as  the  laws  of  nature  receive  them  — 

she  is  strong, 
She,  too,  is  a  law  of  nature  —  there  is  no  law  stronger 

than  she  is. 

The  supreme  message  of  Whitman  can  have 
no  sex  limitations.  Health  and  freedom, 
vigor  and  courage,  these  are  a  challenge  to  all 
alike.  But  since  there  has  been,  and  still  is, 
more  of  conventional  barriers  about  women 
than  men,  woman  peculiarly  needs  his  dis 
tinctive  spur.  In  the  "Song  of  the  Open 
Road"  one  listens  to  an  awe-inspiring,  joy- 
stirring  appeal  to  men  and  women  to  live  in 
the  real  and  the  spontaneous. 

The  road  always  traveled  and  by  all  men  is 
hallowed  and  beautiful  if  one  learns  of  it  "the 
profound  lesson  of  reception,  neither  prefer 
ence  nor  denial,"  but  one  must  be  ready  to 
leave  it,  when  the  personal  mandate  comes, 
into  bypaths  or  into  more  far-carrying,  new- 
blazed  roads. 

O  highway  I  travel!   O  public  road!   Do  you  say  to  me, 

"Do  not  leave  me?  " 

Do  you  say,  "  Venture  not;  if  you  leave  me  you  are  lost?  " 
Do  you  say,  "  I  am  already  prepared  —  I  am  well-beaten 

and  undenied  —  adhere  to  me?" 
O  public  road!  I  say  back,  "I  am  not  afraid  to  leave 

you  —  yet  I  love  you." 

This  reverence  for  the  past,  although  he  does 
not  hesitate  to  defy  its  dictates,  is  character- 


J2  Walt  Whitman 

istic  of  Whitman  always.  Tender  of  old  cus 
toms  which  were  needed,  reverential  of  prece 
dent  and  appreciative  of  established  beauty  he 
yet  must  make  his  own  advance  in  his  own 
way — 

However  sweet  these  laid-up  stores — however  conven 
ient  this  dwelling,  we  cannot  remain  here, 

However  sheltered  this  port,  and  however  calm  these 
waters,  we  must  not  anchor  here. 

Then  more  forcible  and  alluring,  because  we 
know  it  springs  from  no  shallow  undervalua 
tion  of  the  old,  comes  this  bugle  call  to  the 
new: 

Aliens!   The  inducements  shall  be  great  to  you; 

We  will  sail  pathless  and  wild  seas, 

We  will  go  where  winds  blow,  waves  dash,  and  the 
Yankee  clipper  speeds  by  under  full  sail. 

Aliens!   With  power,  liberty,  the  earth,  the  elements! 

Health,  defiance,  gaiety,  self-esteem,  curiosity; 

Let  us  go  from  all  formulas! 

Allons!  Yet  take  warning! 

He  traveling  with  me  needs  the  best  blood,  strews  en 
durance, 

None  may  come  back  to  the  trial,  till  he  or  she  bring 
courage  and  health. 

Mere  newness  is  not  the  test  of  the  new 
paths.  The  way  must  lead  to  real  results  in 
character.  The  soul  and  its  needs  must  never 
be  forgotten.  The  test  is  always  here. 


The  Larger  Woman  73 

Aliens!  After  the  Great  Companions,  and  to  belong  to 
them! 

They,  too,  are  on  the  road!  They  are  the  swift  and  ma 
jestic  men!  They  are  the  greatest  women! 

Of  the  progress  of  the  souls  of  men  and 
women  along  the  grand  road  of  the  universe, 
all  other  progress  is  the  needed  emblem  and 
sustenance. 

Forever  alive,  forever  forward, 

Stately,  solemn,  sad,  withdrawn,  baffled,  mad,  turbulent, 

feeble,  dissatisfied, 
Desperate,  proud,  fond,  sick,  accepted  of  men,  rejected 

of  men. 

They  go!  They  go!  I  know  that  they  go,  but  I  know  not 
where  they  go, 

But  I  know  that  they  go  toward  the  best  —  toward  some 
thing  great. 


The  Larger  Man 


VII. — The  Larger  Man 

I  announce  a  great  individual,  fluid  as  Nature,  chaste, 
affectionate,  compassionate,  fully  armed. 

I  announce  a  life  that  shall  be  copious,  vehement,  spir 
itual,  bold. 

Not  to  chisel  ornaments, 

But  to  chisel  with  free  stroke  the  heads  and  limbs  of 

plenteous  supreme  gods,  that    The   States  may 

realize  them  walking  and  talking. 

Think  of  manhood,  and  you  to  be  a  man; 
Do  you  count  manhood   and  the   sweets  of   manhood 
nothing? 

Whitman  "promulges"  (a  favorite  word 
with  him)  an  ideal  of  manhood  no  less  than  of 
womanhood.  Many  ideals  are  so  far  removed 
from  the  practical  real  that  one  can  recognize 
no  relationship  between  them.  Whitman, 
however,  while  the  divinest  possibilities  are 
not  too  exalted  to  have  place  in  his  ideal, 
drives  the  foundation  piles  so  deep  in  the  solid 
ground  of  robust,  physical  energy  and  hardy, 
full-blooded  activity  that  one  can  believe  in 
the  substantial  character  of  any  superstructure 
he  cares  to  erect  upon  such  a  foundation. 

He  exalts  the  body  and  all  that  suggests  its 
77 


78  Walt  Whitman 

highest  vigor.  He  adores  man,  the  animal, 
before  he  does  homage  to  man,  the  thinker, 
or  man,  the  spiritual  conqueror. 

Primitive  roughness  is  more  to  him  than  the 
veneer  of  the  exquisite  dandy. 

Washes  and  razors  for  foofoos  —  for  me  freckles  and 
the  bristling  beard. 

He  wants  that  man  should  inure  himself  to 
"run,  leap,  swim,  wrestle,  fight — to  stand  the 
heat  or  cold — to  take  good  aim  with  a  gun — 
to  sail  a  boat — manage  horses — to  beget  superb 
children — to  speak  readily  and  clearly — to  feel 
at  home  among  common  people — to  hold 
his  own  in  terrible  positions  on  land  and  sea." 

Not  for  an  embroiderer.  (There  will  always  be  plenty  of 
embroiderers.  I  welcome  them  also.) 

But  for  the  fiber  of  things,  and  for  inherent  men  and 
women. 

Browning  frequently  shows  this  exquisite 
realization  of  health.  With  Whitman  it  is 
fundamental. 

If  anything  is  sacred,  the  human  body  is  sacred. 

And  the  glory  and  sweet  of  a  man,  is  the  token  of 
manhood  untainted. 

And  in  man  or  woman,  a  clean,  strong,  firm-fibered 
body,  is  beautiful  as  the  most  beautiful  face. 

The  following  is  his  conception  of  man  as 
he  should  be  in  native  qualities: 


The  Larger  Man  79 

His  shape  arises. 

Arrogant,  masculine,  naive,  rowdyish, 

Laugher,  weeper,  worker,  idler,  citizen,  countryman, 

Saunterer  of  woods,  stander  upon  hills,  summer  swimmer 

in  rivers  or  by  the  sea. 
Of  pure  American  breed,  of  reckless  health,  his  body 

free  from  taint  from  top  to  toe,  free  forever  from 

headache  and  dyspepsia,  clean-breathed, 
Ample-limbed,  a   good   feeder,  weight  a  hundred  and 

eighty  pounds,  full-blooded,   six  feet  high,  forty 

inches  around  the  breast  and  back. 
Countenance  sun-burnt,  bearded,  calm,  unrefined. 
Reminder  of  animals,  meeter  of  savage  and  gentlemen 

on  equal  terms. 
Attitudes  lithe  and  erect,  costume  free,  neck  gray  and 

open,  of  slow  movement  on  foot. 
Passer  of    his   right  arm  'round   the  shoulders  of    his 

friends,  companions  of  the  streets. 
Persuader  always  of  people  to  give  him  their  sweetest 

touches,  never  their  meanest. 
A  Manhattanese  bred,  fond  of  Brooklyn,fond  of  Broadway, 

fond  of  the  life  of  the  wharfs  and  the  great  ferries. 
Enterer  everywhere,  welcomed  everywhere,  easily  under 
stood  after  all, 
Never  offering  others,  always  offering  himself. 

Surely  when  an  ideal  of  high  character  is 
grounded  upon  such  sturdy,  wholesome  manli 
ness  it  will  not  appear  so  illusory  and  unreal 
as  do  many  visions  of  perfection. 

Walt  Whitman  draws  the  man  he  seeks  as 
fit  for  ' 'These  States/'  in  magnificent  out 
line,  but  even  the  most  exalted  traits  are  filled 
in  with  such  human  shading  that  we  forget 


8o  Walt  Whitman 

that  it  is  an  ideal  and  not  any  prosaic  indi 
vidual  with  whom  we  daily  touch  elbows. 

The  impression  gained  by  the  many  eulo 
gies  of  the  rough  and  unrefined  would  be  mis 
leading  alone.  It  is  the  genuineness  he  insists 
upon,  and  loves  honest  coarseness  rather  than 
an  artificial  coating  of  insincere  polish. 

The  refinement  which  comes  from  gentle 
ness  of  feeling  and  spontaneous  good  will  he 
values  supremely.  "Behavior"  is  his  favorite 
word  for  this  natural  outshowing  of  the  true 
man  or  woman. 

Behavior  —  fresh,  native,  copious,  each  one  for  himself 

or  herself. 

Nature  and  the  Soul  expressed  — 
America  and  freedom  expressed  — 
In  it  the  finest  art. 

In  it  pride,  cleanliness,  sympathy  to  have  their  chance. 
In  it  physique,  intellect,  faith  —  in  it  just  as  much  as  to 

manage  an  army  or  a  city,  or  to  write  a  book  — 

perhaps  more. 
The  youth,  the  laboring  person,  the  poor  person,  rivaling 

all  the  rest  —  perhaps  outdoing  the  rest. 
The  effects  of  the  universe  no  greater  than  its; 
For  there  is  nothing  in  the  whole  universe  that  can  be 

more   effective   than  a   man's  or  woman's  daily 

behavior  can  be, 
In  any  position,  in  any  one  of  these  states. 

There  is  little  in  this  to  help  out  a  catechism 
upon  the  rules  of  etiquette,  but  a  sufficient 


The  Larger  Man 


statement  of  great  principles  to  found  a  school 
of  expression — indeed,  an  entire  system  of 
education  fit  for  the  unfolding  centuries. 

The  wider  selfhood  is  the  inclusive  outline 
of  his  conception  of  human  character. 

As  we  have  previously  seen,  this  taking  into 
himself  of  all  things,  all  men,  all  experiences, 
is  the  key  to  this  poet's  characteristic  work. 
He  believes  it  the  ground  work  of  all  large 
life.  Two  poems  are  specifically  an  expres 
sion  of  this  conviction. 

In  the  poem  "Him  All  Wait  For"  or 
"Song  of  the  Answerer,"  more  than  all  other 
qualities  is  emphasized  this  of  all-embracing 
absorption.  "Every  existence  has  its  idiom," 
which  he  translates  into  his  own  tongue.  All 
divergences  which  seem  to  contradict,  "he 
sees  how  they  join." 

He  says  indifferently  and  alike,  "  How  are  you,  friend?  " 

to  the  president  at  his  levee, 
And  he  says,  "Good  day,  my  brother,"   to  Cudge  that 

hoes  in  the  sugar  field. 
And  both  understand  him,  and  know  that  his  speech  is 

right. 

Every  one,  no  matter  what  his  occupation, 
believes  he  is  of  the  same  calling — authors, 
laborers,  sailors,  soldiers — each  group  feels 


82  Walt  Whitman 

that  he  belongs   to    them.     All    nationalities 
also  claim  him  as  their  own — 

The  English  believe  he  comes  of  their  English  stock. 
A  Jew  to  the  Jew  he  seems  —  a  Russ  to  the  Russ  —  usual 
and  near,  removed  from  none. 

In  "Salut  au  Monde"  he  travels  by  electric 
flights  over  all  the  world — one  of  those  "cata 
loguing"  tours  to  which  the  casual  reader  so 
much  objects.  He  mentions  a  world  full  of 
people  in  all  nations  and  all  times,  past,  pres 
ent,  and  future — takes  them  all  into  his  inter 
est  and  sympathy,  and  lumps  all  whom  he 
may  have  overlooked  in  a  specific  codicil : 

All  you  continentals  of  Asia,  Africa,  Europe,  Australia, . 

indifferent  of  place; 
And  you  on  the  numberless  islands  of  the  archipelagoes 

of  the  sea! 

And  you  of  centuries  hence,  when  you  listen  to  me! 
And  you  each  and  everywhere,  whom  I  specify  not,  but 

include  just  the  same! 
Health  to  you!     Good  will   to  you  all,  from   me   and 

America  sent, 
For  we  acknowledge  you  all  and  each. 

He  does  not  want  anyone  to  imagine  that 
he  is  thus  saluting  only  the  interesting,  digni 
fied,  or  picturesque.  The  "Hottentot,  with 
clicking  palate,"  "woolly-haired  hordes,"  the 
"Austral  negro,  naked,  red,  sooty,  with  pro 
trusive  lip,  groveling" — all  these  and  many 


The  Larger  Man  83 

more  as  discouraging,  are  counted  in  ("they 
will  come  forward  in  due  time  to  my  side"), 
and  still  he  can  affirm: 

My  spirit  has  passed  in  compassion  and  determination 

around  the  whole  earth. 
I  have  looked  for  lovers  and  equals  and  found  them 

ready  for  me  in  all  lands; 
I  think  some  divine  rapport  has  equalized  me  with  them. 

The  great  man  must  first  take  all  creation 
into  his  nature,  and  then  make  that  creation 
glorious  by  his  personal  worth. 

Here  is  realization. 

Here  is  a  man  tallied  — he  realizes  here  what  he  has  in 

him. 
The  animals,  the  past,  the  future,  light,  space,  majesty, 

love,  if  they  are  vacant  of  you,  you  are  vacant 

of  them. 

The  first  condition  of  making  this  all-inclu 
sive  life  glorious  is  valiant  self-reliance.  Man 
must  receive  the  universe,  but  he  must  him 
self  be  the  center  of  that  universe. 

He  may  not  look  about  him  to  learn  the 
truth,  to  receive  commands,  to  find  satisfac 
tion.  These  must  be  found  in  himself.  He 
must  feel  that  he  is  the  focal  center  for  the 
eternal  law  and  potency.  Anxiety  for  recog 
nition,  for  immediate  results,  for  conformity, 
are  quite  apart  from  such  a  spirit. 


84  Walt  Whitman 

I  exist  as  I  am  —  that  is  enough. 

If  no  other  world  be  aware,  I  sit  content. 

And  if  each  and  all  be  aware,  I  sit  content. 

One  world  is  aware,  and  by  far  the  largest  to  me,  and 

that  is  myself. 
And  whether  I  come  to  my  own  to-day  or  in  ten  thousand 

or  ten  million  years, 
I  can  cheerfully  take  it  now,  or  with  equal  cheerfulness  I 

can  wait. 

My  foothold  is  tenoned  and  mortised  in  granite; 
I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution, 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time. 

O,  while  I  live  to  be  the  ruler  of  life,  not  a  slave; 
To  meet  life  as  a  powerful  conqueror, 
No  fumes,  no  ennui  —  no  more  complaints  or  scornful 
criticisms. 

[Superiority  to  external  conditions,  mastery 
over  circumstances  is  the  first  requisite  of  free 
dom  and  the  life  which  can  only  grow  in  free 
dom^ 

Me  imperturbe. 

Me  standing  at  ease  in  Nature, 

Master  of  all,  or  mistress  of  all  — aplomb  in  the  midst  of 

irrational  things. 

Imbued  as  they  —  passive,  receptive,  silent  as  they. 
Finding  my  occupation,  poverty,  notoriety,  foibles,  crimes, 

less  important  than  I  thought. 
Me  private,  or  public,  or  menial,  or  solitary — all  these 

subordinate  (I  am  equal  with  the  best — I  am  not 

subordinate). 

Me,  wherever  my  life  is  lived. 
O,  to  be  self-balanced  for  contingencies! 
O,  to  confront  night,  storms,  hunger,  ridicule,  accidents, 

rebuffs,  as  the  trees  and  animals  do. 


The  Larger  Man  85 

A  sublime  confidence  and  power  goes  with 
such  self-poise. 

Henceforth  he  "asks  not  a  good  fortune.  I 
am  good  fortune."  Such  an  attitude  produces 
"men  and  women  who  while  they  are  nigh  me 
the  sunlight  expands  my  blood." 

The  following  extract  from  the  "Song  of 
Myself"  strikingly  anticipates  a  recent  faith  in 
personal  power  over  physical  disease.  It  was 
a  prophecy,  too,  of  Whitman's  own  influence 
in  the  hospitals  during  the  civil  war. 

To  anyone  dying — thither  I  speed  and  twist  the  knob  of 
the  door. 

Turn  the  bed  clothes  toward  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

Let  the  physician  and  the  priest  go  home. 

I  seize  the  descending  man  and  raise  him  with  resist 
less  will. 

O,  despairers,  here  is  my  neck. 

By  God!     You  shall  not  go  down! 

Hang  your  whole  weight  upon  me. 

I  dilate  you  with  tremendous  breath — I  buoy  you  up. 

Every  room  in  the  house  do  I  fill  with  an  armed  force. 

Lovers  of  me,  bafflers  of  graves, 

Sleep!  I  and  they  keep  guard  all  night. 

Not  doubt,  not  disease  shall  dare  to  lay  finger  upon  you. 

I  have  embraced  you,  and  henceforth  possess  you  myself, 

And  when  you  rise  in  the  morning  you  will  find  what  I 
tell  you  is  so. 

I  am  he  bringing  help  for  the  sick  as  they  pant  on 
their  backs, 

And  for  strong,  upright  men  I  bring  yet  more  needed 
help. 


86  Walt  Whitman 

The  larger  humanity  is  the  be  all  and  end 
all  of  this  poet's  philosophy.  He  not  only 
yearns  for  it,  but  believes  in  it.  A  "hundred 
million  of  superb  persons  will  yet  walk 
through  these  states."  "The  rest" — all 
other  interests  and  existence — "part  away  for 
superb  persons  and  contribute  to  them." 

/All  waits  or  goes  by  default,  till  a  strong  being  appears; 
|  A  strong  being  is  the  proof  of  the  race,  and  of  the  ability 
of  the  universe. 


Youth,  Maturity,  Age 


VIII. — Youth,  Maturity,  Age 

Youth,  large,  lusty,  loving  —  youth  full  of  grace,  force, 

fascination! 
Do  you  know  that  Old  Age  may  come  after  you  with 

equal  grace,  force,  fascination? 
Day  full-blown  and  splendid — day  of  the  immense  sun, 

action,  ambition,  laughter; 
The  Night  follows  close  with  millions  of  suns,  and  sleep, 

and  restoring  darkness. 

In  the  discussion  of  the  larger  man  it  was 
impossible  to  go  into  many  phases,  too  full  of 
helpful  suggestion  to  be  omitted.  Continuing 
the  same  subject,  it  may  be  well  to  give  it  the 
age  color  Whitman  so  often  beautifully  lends 
to  his  human  references. 

/"  Youth  is  rarely  pictured  in  itself.  Usually 
it  is  seen  as  a  prophecy,  or  as  typical  of  the 
future  with  its  promise:  ~) 

O  tan-faced  prairie  boy, 

Before  you  came  to  camp,  came  many  a  welcome  gift; 

Praises  and  presents  came  and  nourishing  food,  till  at 

last  among  the  recruits 
You  came,  taciturn,  with  nothing  to  give  —  we  looked  on 

each  other, 
When  lo!  more  than  all  the  gifts  of  the  world  you  gave  me. 

Naturally,   the  robust,   physical   life  which 
Whitman  values  pre-eminently  in  maturity  is 
89 


90  Walt  Whitman 

a  part  of  his  ideal  of  youth.  The  same  genu 
ine  spontaneity  is  requisite  for  the  boy — a 
spontaneity  from  which  springs  a  morality 
finer  than  obedience  to  arbitrary  dictation 
from  any  source  could  secure: 

The  boy  I  love  —  the  same  becomes  a  man  —  not  through 

derived  power,  but  in  his  own  right; 
Wicked,  rather  than  virtuous,  out  of  conformity  and  fear; 
Fond  of  his  sweetheart  —  relishing  well  his  steak  — 
Unrequited   love,  or  a  slight,  cutting  him  worse  than 

a  wound  cuts; 
First  rate  to  ride,  to  fight,  to  hit  the  bull's  eye,  to  sail 

a  skiff,  to  sing  a  song,  or  play  on  the  banjo, 
Preferring  scars,  and  faces  pitted  with  small-pox,  over 

all  latherers,  and  those  who  keep  out  of  the  sun. 

Whitman's  charity  and  hearty  good-will  for 
the  morally  unfortunate  is  only  equaled  by  his 
yearning  solicitude  for  youth  that  it  should 
not  lose  its  way. 

In  one  of  his  poems  he  addresses  "You  just 
maturing  youth,"  and  urges  him  to  remember 
many  things  which  will  tend  to  make  him 
keep  his  manhood  unsullied.  There  is  no 
direct  moralizing — only  a  series  of  suggestions 
of  inspiration  and  caution. 

He  reminds  him  of  the  wonderful  heritage 
each  youth  possesses  in  this  country  with  its 
history;  of  its  high  destiny  and  the  copious 
humanity  streaming  from  every  direction 


Touth,  Maturity,  Age  91 

toward  America;  of  the  national  hospitality 
he  must  promote;  of  the  freedom  and  abso 
lute  equality  he  must  guard  ;  of  the  great  mul 
titude  of  the  future  for  whom  he  must  keep 
all  institutions  noble. 

Anticipate  your  own  life — retract  with  merciless  power, 
Shrink  nothing — retract  in  time — do  you  see  those  errors, 
weaknesses,  lies,  thefts? 

Think  of  the  Soul ; 

1  swear  to  you  that  body  of  yours  gives  proportions  to 

your  Soul  somehow  to  live  in  other  spheres; 
I  do  not  know  how,  but  I  know  it  is  so. 

Think  of  loving  and  being  loved; 
Think  of  spiritual  results, 

Sure  as  the  earth  swims  through  the  heavens,  does  every 
one  of  its  objects  pass  into  spiritual  results. 

Interwoven  thus  are  all  sorts  of  incentives 
for  the  high  life  of  cleanliness  and  large 
motive. 

National  pride,  race  responsibility,  physical 
safety,  reverence  for  woman  and  for  love,  the 
stimulus  of  heroes,  responsibility  for  the  soul's 
eternal  perfecting,  are  all  marshaled  to  aid  the 
youth  in  his  conquest  over  the  unworthy. 

He  speaks  of  the  mission  of  poetry  as  being 
"to  fill  man  with  a  vigorous  and  clean  manli 
ness,  religiousness,  and  give  him  good  heart  as 


92  Walt  Whitman 

a  radical  possession  and  habit."  He  himself 
certainly  strives  to  that  end. 

It  is  difficult  to  separate  special  character 
elements  from  poems,  all  of  which  are  filled 
with  life  motives  and  ideals — human  interests 
and  characteristics. 

Whitman  could  not  conceive  noble  character 
indifferent  to  matters  of  country  and  human 
ity.  His  thought  of  America  will  be  later  dis 
cussed.  This  is  his  most  intense  passion — the 
love  of  the  aggregate  in  the  national  life — and 
hence  his  conception  of  fully  matured  man 
hood  has  in  it  much  of  patriotism. 

The  highest  for  each  and  all  in  the  corpo 
rate  life — to  live  more  nobly,  that  all  may 
inherit  greater  nobleness,  should  be  man's 
deep-lying  aspiration. 

Great  is  the  English  brood.    What  brood  has  so  vast 

a  destiny  as  the  English? 
It  is  the  mother  of  the  brood  that  must  rule  the  earth 

with  the  new  rule. 
The  new  rule  shall  rule  as  the  Soul  rules;  and  as  the 

love,  justice,  equality  in  the  Soul,  rule. 

Love  of  truth  as  an  element  of  character 
takes  on  a  different  angle  in  Whitman  than  is 
given  it  elsewhere.  Love  of  some  abstract 
and  exalted  truth  is  too  often  made  an  excuse 
for  indifference  to  prosaic  facts.  The  truth 


Toutk,  Maturity,  Age  93 

lies  in  all  things  as  they  exist,  if  one  is  wise 
enough  to  see  it,  and  nothing  can  hide  it  but 
cynicism  and  indifference. 

Great  is  the  quality  of  Truth  in  man; 

The  quality  of  truth  in  man  supports  itself  through  all 

changes; 
It  is  inevitable  in  the  man;  he  and  it  are  in  love,  and 

never  leave  each  other. 

The  Truth  in  man  is  no  dictum,  it  is  vital  as  eyesight. 
If  there  be  any  Soul,  there  is  truth — if  there  be  any  man 

or  woman,  there  is  truth — if  there  be  physical  or 

moral,  there  is  truth; 
If  there  be  equilibrium  or  volition,  there  is  truth — if  there 

be  things  at  all  upon  the  earth,  there  is  truth. 

0  truth  of  the  earth!    O  truth  of  things!     I  am  deter 

mined  to  press  my  way  toward  you. 
Sound  your  voice!     I  scale  mountains,  or  dive  in  the 
sea  after  you. 

As  a  rule,  Whitman  lays  little  stress  upon 
mental  power.  If  separated  from  energy  for 
practical  affairs  or  human  sympathy  he  would 
care  little  for  intellectual  attainment,  and  so  at 
times  he  seems  to  undervalue  it. 

Consistency  does  not  trouble  him,  however, 
for  he  includes  " multitude,"  and  before  he 
makes  full  circuit  he  embraces  many  sides  of 
the  truth. 

1  have  said  many  times  that  materials  and  the  Soul  are 

great,  and  that  all  depends  on  physique; 
Now  I  reverse  what  I  said,  and  affirm  that  all  depends 
on  the  aesthetic  or  intellectual, 


94  Walt  Whitman 

And  that  criticism  is  great  —  and  that  refinement  is 
greatest  of  all; 

And  I  affirm  now  that  mind  governs — and  that  all  de 
pends  on  the  mind. 

For  definitely  expressed  aspiration,  after 
specific  character  attainments,  the  poem 
named  in  the  later  editions  "  Excelsior"  stands 
alone. 

Who  has  gone  farthest?  for  I  would  go  farther. 

And  who  has  been  just?  for  I  would  be  the  most  just 

person  on  the  earth. 

And  who  most  cautious?  for  I  would  be  more  cautious. 
And  who  has  been  happiest?     O,  I  think  it  is  I  —  I  think 

no  one  was  ever  happier  than  I. 
And  who  has  lavished  all?  for  I  lavish  constantly  the 

best  I  have. 
And  who  proudest?  for  I  think  I  have  reason  to  be  the 

proudest  son  alive — for  I  am  the  son  of  the  brawny 

and  tall-topt  city. 
And  who  has  been  bold  and  true?  for  I  would  be  the 

boldest  and  truest  being  in  the  universe. 
And  who  benevolent?  for  I  would  show  more  benevo 
lence  than  all  the  rest. 
And  who  has  received  the  love  of  the  most  friends? 

for  I  know  what  it  is  to  receive  the  passionate 

love  of  many  friends.  ' 
And  who  possesses  a  perfect  and  enamored  body?  for  I 

do  not  believe  anyone  possesses  a  more  perfect 

or  enamored  body  than  mine; 

And  who  thinks  the  amplest  thoughts?  for  I  would  sur 
round  those  thoughts. 
And  who  has  made  hymns  fit  for  the  earth?  for  I  am 

mad  with  devouring  ecstacy  to  make  joyous  hymns 

for  the  whole  earth. 


Touth,  Maturity,  Age  95 

Surely,  by  this  time,  no  one  can  think  of 
this  as  egotism  of  the  petty  sort.  The  strong 
est  conviction  of  the  poet  is  that  such  self- 
exaltation  is  the  hope  of  the  race  and  pecu 
liarly  needed  by  the  people  of  a  democratic 
nation,  resting,  as  it  does,  on  the  individual 
sanctity  of  each. 

So  long! 

I  announce  an  old  age  that  shall  lightly  and  joyfully 
meet  its  translation. 

Nothing  is  more  unique  in  Whitman  than 
his  delight  in  old  age,  save  his  eulogy  of 
death,  to  which  it  is  akin. 

He  sees  in  Old  Age  "the  estuary  that  en 
larges  and  spreads  itself  grandly  as  it  pours  in 
the  great  sea. ' ' 

He  has  for  age  also  the  expectation  of  an 
athletic  strength  and  enthusiasm. 

In  "Children  of  Adam"  he  describes  a 
great-grandfather  "of  wonderful  vigor,  calm 
ness,  and  beauty  of  person.  The  shape  of  his 
head,  the  richness  and  breadth  of  his  manners, 
the  pale  yellow  and  white  of  his  hair  and 
beard,  and  the  immeasurable  meaning  of  his 
black  eyes." 

This  man  of  eighty  years  was  six  feet  tall — 
"the  blood  showed  like  scarlet  through  the 
clear  brown  of  his  skin." 


96  Walt  Whitman 

When  he  went  with  his  five  sons  and  many  grand 
sons  to  hunt  or  fish,  you  would  pick  him  out  as  the 
most  beautiful  and  vigorous  of  the  gang. 

There  is  ever  a  sense  of  the  sublime  and 
steadfast  in  the  old  age  so  tenderly  and  rever 
ently  exalted  in  these  poems.  An  atmosphere 
as  of  the  heights  of  the  conqueror,  but  it  is 
never  a  final  thing;  always  above  and  beyond 
it  lie  the  inimitable  spaces  of  eternal  progress. 

O,  the  old  manhood  of  me,  my  joy! 

My  children  and  grandchildren  —  my  white   hair   and 

beard  — 
My  largeness,  calmness,  majesty,  out  of  the  long  stretch 

of  my  life. 

And  again  he  describes  the  "  Journeyers" 
and  among  them : 

Old  Age,  calm,  expanded,  broad  with  the  haughty  breath 

of  the  universe; 
Old  Age,  flowing  free  with  the  delicious  near-by  freedom 

of  death. 

In  the  "Song  at  Sunset,"  a  poem  whose 
poetic  quality  is  peculiarly  exquisite,  we  find 
this  summary: 

Good  in  all. 

In  the  satisfaction  and  aplomb  of  animals, 

In  the  annual  return  of  the  seasons, 

In  the  hilarity  of  youth, 

In  the  strength  and  flush  of  manhood, 

In  the  grandeur  and  exquisiteness  of  old  age, 

In  the  superb  vistas  of  death. 


Unity  with  Nature 


IX. — Unity  with  Nature 

There  was  a  child  went  forth  every  day, 

And  the  first  object  he  look'd  upon,  that  object  he  be 
came, 

And  that  object  became  part  of  him  for  the  day  or  a 
certain  part  of  the  day, 

Or  for  many  years,  or  stretching  cycles  of  years. 

The  early  lilacs  became  part  of  this  child, 

And  grass  and  white  and  red  morning  glories  and  white 

and  red  clover,  and  the  song  of  the  phoebe-bird, 
And  the  third-month   lambs  and  the  sow's   pink-faint 

litter,  and  the  mare's  foal  and  the  cow's  calf, 
And  the  noisy  brood  of  the  barnyard  or  by  the  mire  of 

the  pondside, 
And  the  fish  suspending  themselves  so  curiously  below 

there,  and  the  beautiful  curious  liquid, 
And  the  water  plants,  with  their  graceful  flat  heads,  all 

became  part  of  him. 

It  is  a  surprise  to  the  student  of  Walt  Whit 
man  to  find  that  with  all  his  unusual  interests, 
he  is  perhaps  most  excellent,  after  all,  in  the 
realm  common  to  poets  generally — the  descrip 
tion  and  interpretation  of  nature. 

Mere  admiration  of  natural  beauty  does  not 
satisfy.  All  the  world  about  in  its  every 
aspect,  he  believes  is  unconsciously  absorbed 
99 


ioo  Walt  Whitman 

and  assimilated  into  each  life  from  the  earliest 
moments  and  later  should  be  consciously 
received  into  the  inmost  soul  as  a  large  part 
of  its  richest  experience. 

It  seems  scarcely  possible  that  even  Words 
worth's  word  brush  has  painted  more  exquisite 
pictures  of  nature's  life  and  growth,  color  and 
sound  than  Whitman  has  left  us. 

His  words  in  these  pictures  are  chosen  with 
rare  originality  and  perfect  discrimination. 
But  even  in  the  abundance  of  his  nature  work, 
man  is  never  forgotten.  The  human  soul  is 
always  the  center.  It  is  nature  as  man  sees 
it — nature  as  it  reacts  in  spiritual  interpreta 
tion — never  nature  for  itself  alone. 

Before  the  fitting  man  all  Nature  yields. 

This  extract  from  the  " Song  of  Myself," 
though  less  beautiful  than  many  of  his  later 
passages,  is  unique  and  inspiring: 

To  behold  the  daybreak  — 

The  little   light   fades   the    immense    and    diaphanous 

shadows. 

The  air  tastes  good  to  my  palate; 
Hefts  of  the  moving  world  at  innocent  gambols  silently 

rising,  freshly  exuding, 
Scooting  obliquely  high  and  low. 

Something  I  can  not  see  puts  upward  libidinous  prongs; 
Seas  of  bright  juice  suffuse  heaven. 


Unity  with  Nature  101 

Dazzling  and  tremendous,  how  quick  the  sun-rise  would 

kill  me, 

If  I  could  not  now  and  always  send  the  sun-rise  out  of  me. 
We  also  ascend  dazzling  and  tremendous  as  the  sun; 
We  found  our  own,  O  my  soul,  in  the  calm  and  cool  of 

the  daybreak. 

The  sun  is  a  favorite  object  of  his  adoration. 
He  invokes  it  thus  in  the  opening  of  a  series 
of  his  later  poems: 

Thou  orb  aloft  full  dazzling!  thou  hot  October  sun! 
Flooding  with  sheeny  light  the  gray  beach  sand, 
The  sibilant  near  sea  with  vistas  far  and  foam, 
Arid  tawny  streaks  and  shades  and  spreading  blue; 
O  sun  of  noon,  refulgent!  my  special  word  to  thee, 


Thou  that  with  fructifying  heat  and  light, 

O'er  myriad  farms,  o'er  lands  and  waters,  North  and 

South, 
O'er  all  the  globe  that  turns  its  face  to  thee  shining  in 

space; 
Thou  that  impartially  infoldest  all,  not  only  continents, 

seas; 
Thou  that  to  grapes  and  weeds  and  little  wild  flowers 

givest  so  liberally, 
Shed,  shed  thyself  on  mine  and  me,  with  but  a  fleeting 

ray  out  of  thy  million  millions. 
Strike  through  these  chants, 
Nor  only  launch  thy  subtle  dazzle  and  thy  strength  for 

these. 
Prepare  the  later  afternoon  of  me  myself — prepare  my 

lengthening  shadows, 
Prepare  my  starry  nights. 


io2  Walt  Whitman 

The  night  is  full  of  suggestion  and  promise 
to  the  poet  as  well  as  the  sun.  To  him,  it  is 
a  sacred  prophecy  of  that  illimitable  potency 
men  call  death.  Its  mystery,  its  star-filled 
immensity,  its  brooding,  nourishing  power  all 
enter  frequently  into  his  thought. 

I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night; 

I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea,  half  held  by  the  Night. 

Press  close,  bare-bosomed  Night! 

Press  close,  magnetic,  nourishing  Night! 

Night  of  the  south  winds!  Night  of  the  large  few  stars! 

Still,  nodding  Night!     Mad,  naked  summer  Night. 

This  passage  continues  with  an  apostrophe 
to  the  earth  in  the  moonlight,  which  is  surely 
passionate  in  its  beauty. 

Smile,  O  voluptuous,  cool-breathed  Earth! 

Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees! 

Earth  of  the  departed  sunset!     Earth  of  the  mountain's 

misty  top! 
Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon,  just  tinged 

with  blue! 
Earth  of  the  shine  and  dark,  mottling  the  tide  of  the 

rivers! 
Earth  of  the  limpid  gray  of  clouds,  brighter  and  clearer 

for  my  sake! 
Far-swooping   elbowed   Earth!     Rich,   apple-blossomed 

Earth! 
Smile,  for  Your  Lover  comes! 

The  sea  is  an  endless  source  of  wonder, 
delight,  and  suggestion.  It  even  staggers  and 
humbles  him  at  times. 


Unity  with  Nature  103 

I,  too,  but  signify,  at  the  utmost,  a  little  washed-up  drift. 

Oppressed  with  myself  that  I  have  dared  to  open  my 
mouth. 

I  perceive  Nature  here  in  sight  of  the  sea,  is  taking  ad 
vantage  of  me,  to  dart^upon  me,  and  sting  me, 

Because  I  am  assuming  so  much, 

And  because  I  have  dared  to  open  my  mouth  to  sing 
at  all. 

He  is  in  despair  at  want  of  power  to  find 
"the  secret  of  the  wondrous  murmuring"  he 
envies,  but  finally  asserts: 

Sea-raff!  crook-tongued  waves! 

O,  I  will  yet  sing,  some  day,  what  you  have  said  to  me. 

The  following  passage  is  regarded  by 
Symonds  as  of  a  fine  poetic  quality.  It  cer 
tainly  says  much  in  little  and  the  few  lines 
which  express  the  experience  of  the  ocean 
swimmer  are  full  of  satisfaction  to  one  who 
has  known  that  keenest  physical  delight. 

Yon  Sea!    I  resign  myself  to  you  also  —  I  guess  what  you 

mean, 

I  behold  from  the  beach  your  crooked  inviting  fingers, 
I  believe  you  refuse  to  go  back  without  feeling  of  me; 
We  must  have  a  turn  together —  I  undress,  hurry  me  out 

of  sight  of  the  land, 

Cushion  me  soft,  rock  me  in  billowy  drowse, 
Dash  me  with  amorousTwet  —  I^can  repay  you. 
Sea  of  stretched  ground  swells! 
Sea  breathing  broad,  convulsive  breaths! 
Sea  of  the  brine  of  life!  Sea  of  unshoveled  yet  always 

ready  graves! 


104  Walt  Whitman 

Howler  and  scooper  of  storms!  Capricious  and  dainty  sea! 
I  am  integral  with  you  —  I  too  am  of  one  phase,  and  of 
all  phases. 

Whitman's  cosmopolitan  enthusiasm  is  well 
illustrated  in  his  equal  appreciation  of  the 
peculiar  attractions  of  each  of  the  many  parts 
of  the  nation. 

His  thrilling  delight  in  Manahatta — his  own 
New  York — is  no  more  intense  than  his  home 
sick  yearning  for  the  South.  "O  Magnet 
South"  is  an  ecstatic  jumble  of  each  and  all 
of  the  Southern  states,  but  breathes  the  pecu 
liar  aroma  of  that  region.  California  ideals 
and  possibilities  as  well  as  its  matchless  skies 
have  never  been  better  voiced  than  by  him  in 
the  "Song  of  the  Redwood  Tree."  and  in 
many  other  references. 

The  mountain  states  are  not  omitted.  He 
speaks  of  " their  delicious,  rare  atmosphere," 
and  of  their  "  mountain  tops  innumerable 
draped  in  violet  haze,"  and  concludes:  "Yes, 
I  fell  in  love  with  Denver,  and  even  felt  a  wish 
to  spend  my  declining  and  dying  days  there." 

Thus  he  escapes  even  that  one  harmless 
prejudice  from  which  few  are  free — love  of 
one's  own  locality  at  the  expense  of  other 
regions.  He  vies  with  each  and  all  in  appre 
ciation  of  each  and  every  locality. 


Unity  with  Nature  105 

Nature  is  vocalized  in  the  thought  of  this 
poet 

Ah,  from  a  little  child, 

Thou  knowest,  Soul,  how  to  me  all  sounds  became  music* 

My  mother's  voice  in  lullaby  or  hymn 

(The  voice,  O,  tender  voices,  memory's  loving  voices 

Last  miracle  of  all,  O  dearest  mother's,  sister's  voices). 

The  rain,  the  growing  corn,  the  breeze  among  the  long- 

leav'd  corn, 

The  measur'd  sea-surf  beating  on  the  sand, 
The  twittering  bird,  the  hawk's  sharp  scream, 
The  wild  fowls'  notes  at  night  as  flying  low,  migrating 

north  or  south; 
The  psalm  in  the  country  church  or  mid  the  clustering 

trees,  the  open  air  camp  meeting. 
The  fiddler  in  the  tavern,  the  glee,  the  long-strung  sailor 

song. 
The  lowing  cattle,  bleating  sheep,  the  crowing  cock  at 

dawn. 

"That  music  always  about  me,"  is  a  chorus 
formed  of  all  harmonies. 

A  tenor,  strong,  ascending  with  power  and  health,  with 

glad  notes  of  daybreak  I  hear, 
A  soprano  at  intervals  sailing  buoyantly  over  the  tops  of 

immense  waves, 
A  transparent  bass,  shuddering  lusciously  under  and 

through  the  universe. 

The  music-lover  should  study  the  poem, 
"Proud  Music  of  the  Storm."  It  contains  a 
fairly  good  history  of  music  as  well  as  its 
theory,  even  though  at  the  end  he  turns  it  all 
into  his  own  dear  lesson  for  the  poetic  art. 


io6  Walt  Whitman 

All  art  must,  however,  follow  the  same  clue — 
Cheerfully  tallying  life,  walking  the  world — the  real 
Nourished  henceforth  by  one  celestial  dream. 

Before  entering  upon  Whitman's  theory  of 
his  art,  so  closely  akin  as  it  is  to  his  reverent 
love  of  nature,  there  should  be  some  reference 
to  the  famous  memorial  poem  to  Lincoln, 
"When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- Yard 
Bloomed." 

One  must  not  expect  to  enjoy  fully  this 
poem  until  the  right  to  do  so  has  been  earned 
by  hard  study. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  the  world  is  so  slow  to 
see  that  the  best  poetry,  like  the  best  music, 
cannot  be  at  first  sight  understood  or  enjoyed 
to  the  full? 

It  is  no  reproach  against  a  musical  composer 
that  his  symphony  eludes  the  offhand,  im 
promptu  interpretation  of  an  amateur.  Why 
should  it  settle  the  fate  of  a  poet?  Deeply 
wrought  art  in  all  departments  requires  study, 
and  then  becomes  richer  in  returns  through 
each  successive  year  in  which  it  is  given 
further  study. 

This  poem,  in  memory  of  Lincoln,  is  a  richly 
woven  wreath  of  spring  flowers,  entwined 
with  evening  star  and  song  of  the  thrush  to 
crown  the  brow  of  the  fallen  hero.  It  sug- 


Unity  with  Nature  107 

gests  the  depressing  days  in  which  the  slow- 
drooping  star  had  brought  foreboding  to  the 
poet  of  the  sinking  of  humanity's  brightest 
star.  It  pictures  the  long  black  funeral  train 
moving  across  a  continent  of  breaking  hearts 
to  its  resting  place,  but  moving  over  a  spring 
time  carpet.  The  lilac  branch  he  brings  to 
this  coffin  he  brings  alike  to  all,  for  death  is 
akin  to  the  sweet  natural  breath  of  the  flowers. 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring, 
For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  song 

for  you,  O  sane  and  sacred  death. 
All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies, 
But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 
Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprig  from  the  bushes. 
With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pausing  for  you, 
For  you  and  the  coffins,  all  of  you,  O  death. 

Then,  with  the  thought  of  death  as  a  com 
rade  upon  one  side  and  the  fact  of  death  upon 
the  other,  the  poet  fled  forth  into  the  forest 
to  hear  the  thrush's  song. 

The  thrush  sings  triumphant  of  those  who  are 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  death. 

The  poem  closes  with  the  lines : 

For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands, 

and  this  for  his  dear  sake 

Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my  soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  cedars  dusk  and  dim. 


io8  Walt  Whitman 

After  all  the  "much  speaking"  about 
Whitman's  art  or  his  want  of  art,  there  can  be 
no  doubt  of  the  one  thing  he  tried  for,  namely, 
the /simplicity  of  nature,  and  harmony  in  his' 
thought  and  form  with  nature's  reality  and 
spontaneity) 

I  swear  there  is  no  greatness  or  power  that  does  not 
emulate  those  of  the  earth. 

There  can  be  no  theory  of  any  account  unless  it  cor 
roborate  the  theory  of  earth. 

No  politics,  song,  religion,  behavior,  or  what  not,  is  of  ac 
count,  unless  it  compare  with  the  amplitude  of  the 
earth; 

Unless  it  face  the  exactness,  vitality,  impartiality,  recti 
tude  of  the  earth. 

His  poem,  "To  the  Sayers  of  Words,"  has 
in  later  editions  been  rechristened,  "A  Song 
of  the  Rolling  Earth,"  in  further  emphasis 
of  the  fact  that  (all  art  in  words  must  con 
form  to  the  greatness  and  individuality  of 
nature's  rugged  strength  and  unstereotyped 
beauty!) 

The  following  poem,  inspired  by  Platte 
Cafton,  in  Colorado,  is  the  author's  own 
answer  to  the  accusation  that  his  poems  have 
forgotten  art.  (  Perhaps,  he  replies,  but  they 
have  not  forgotten  the  spirit  which  formed  the 
rocks,  peaks,  and  gorges  of  such  a  scene  as 
this. 


Unity  with  Nature  109 

Spirit  that  form'd  this  scene, 

These  tumbled  rock-piles,  grim  and  red, 

These  reckless,  heaven-ambitious  peaks, 

These  gorges,  turbulent-clear  streams,  this  naked  fresh 
ness, 

These  formless  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of  their  own, 

I  know  thee,  savage  spirit — we  have  communed  together, 

Mine,  too,  such  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of  their  own; 

Was't  charged  against  my  chants  they  had  forgotten  art? 

To  fuse  within  themselves  its  rules  precise  and  deli- 
catesse? 

The  lyrist's  measured  beat,  the  wrought -out  temple's 
grace  —  column  and  polished  arch  forgot? 

But  Thou  that  revelest  here  —  spirit  that  formed  this 
scene, 

They  have  remember'd  thee. 


Democracy 


X.  —  Democracy 

Democracy! 

Near  at  hand  to  you  a  throat  is  now  inflating  itself  and 
joyfully  singing. 

My  Comrade! 

For  you,  to  share  with  me  two  greatnesses  —  and  a  third 
one,  rising  inclusive  and  more  resplendent, 

The  greatness  of  Love  and  Democracy  —  and  the  great 
ness  of  Religion. 

I  speak  the  pass-word  primeval  —  I  give  the  sign  of  De 
mocracy. 

In  this  topic  we  reach  the  pivotal  point  of 
the  enthusiasms  of  Walt  Whitman.  Every 
other  element  in  his  thought  is  in  some  way 
related  to  this  principle — the  equality  and 
sacred  value  of  every  human  being  and  a  free 
life  in  society  based  upon  this  equality  and 
worth. 

He  brings  to  this  thought,  as  we  have  seen, 
a  unique  appreciation  of  the  individual — an 
individual  to  which  an  eternal  past  of  cosmic 
evolution  has  contributed  and  which  will  have 
an  eternal  future  in  which  to  fulfill  its  destiny. 

This  exaltation  of  the  individual  is  akin  to — 
indeed,  is  another  aspect  of  the  poet's  democ 
racy.  Man  in  his  relation  to  other  men — the 
"3 


ii4  Walt  Whitman 

larger  life  of  all  men  with  each  other  in  a 
united  humanity  is  a  most  vital  aspect  of  the 
life  of  the  individual.  Indeed,  the  one  and 
the  many  are  of  co-equal  importance  in  these 
poems — each  is  cause,  each  is  effect.  A  noble 
individual  is  necessary  to  a  noble  society,  but 
a  noble,  equalized  fraternity  in  society  is 
essential  to  the  rounded  man  or  woman. 

Whitman's  passion  of  passions  is  his  adora 
tion  of  America,  but  it  is  because  it  is  to  him 
the  incarnation  of  this  dual  supremacy — the 
embodiment  of  the  sacred  mass  made  up  of 
sacred,  vital  units. 

The  main  shapes  arise! 

Shapes  of  Democracy  total,  result  of  centuries, 

Shapes  ever  projecting  other  shapes, 

Shapes  of  turbulent,  manly  cities, 

Shapes  of  the  friends  and  home -givers  of  the  whole 

earth, 
Shapes  bracing  the  earth  and  braced  with  the  whole 

earth. 

This  democracy  is  of  every  sort — political, 
social,  moral. 

We  have  already  seen  how  complete  is  his 
sense  of  comradeship  even  with  the  moral  out 
cast,  and  social  democracy  breathes  in  every 
expression  of  character  ideal.  Indeed,  the 
tremendous  force  of  his  universal  sympathy 
lies  in  that  atmosphere  of  democracy  which  he 


Democracy  1 1 5 


gives  to  every  sentiment  he  utters,  whatever 
the  subject. 

There  remains  to  be  specifically  noted  his 
attitude  toward  political  democracy.  A  gov 
ernment  in  which  laws  and  officials  are  min 
imized  and  always  directly  subservient  to  thej' 
will  of  the  people  is  the  only  form  of  social 
organization  which  Whitman  can  tolerate  ex 
cept  as  an  evolutionary  stepping  stone. 

He  would  rejoice  in  the  time  when  laws  had 
become  unnecessary  through  the  fraternal  de-  ^ 
velopment  of  humanity. 

The  greatest  city  is  one 

Where  the  men  and  women  think  lightly  of  the  laws, 
Where  the  slave  ceases,  and  the  master  of  the  slave 

ceases, 

Where  the  populace  rise  at  once   against  the  never- 
ending  audacity  of  elected  persons, 
Where  fierce  men  and  women  pour  forth,  as  the  sea 

to  the  whistle  of  death  pours  its  sweeping  and 

unript  waves, 
Where  outside  authority  enters  always  after  precedence 

of  inside  authority, 
Where  the  citizen  is  always  the  head  and  the  ideal  — 

and  President,  Mayor,  Governor,  and  what  not, 

are  agents  for  pay  — 
Where  children  are  taught  to  be  laws  to  themselves 

and  depend  on  themselves. 

Whitman   feels  it  a  supreme  duty  to  urge 
this  self-assertion  at  the  expense  of  outgrown 


n  6  Walt  Whitman 

law  and  insidious  shackles.  It  is  his  "to  pro 
mulgate  liberty ;  to  cheer  up  slaves  and  horrify 
despots;  to  build  for  that  which  builds  for 
mankind ;  to  balance  ranks,  complexions, 
creeds,  and  the  sexes;  to  justify  science  and 
the  march  of  equality,  and  to  feed  the  blood 
of  the  brawn-beloved  of  time." 

The  following  are  stanzas  from  a  poem  to 
"A  Foiled  European  Revolutionaire"  : 

Courage  yet,  my  brother  or  my  sister! 

Keep  on  —  Liberty  is  to  be  subserved  whatever  occurs; 

That  is  nothing  that  is  quelled  by  one  or  two  failures, 

or  any  number  of  failures, 
Or  by  the   indifference  or  ingratitude   of   the   people, 

or  by  any  unfaithfulness, 
Or  the  show  of  the  tushes  of  power,  soldiers,  cannon» 

penal  statutes. 

What  we  believe  in  waits  latent  forever  through  all  the 
continents, 

Invites  no  one,  promises  nothing,  sits  in  calmness  and 
light,  is  positive  and  composed,  knows  no  dis 
couragement, 

Waiting  patiently,  waiting  its  time. 

When  liberty  goes  out  of  a  place  it  is  not  the  first  to  go, 
nor  the  second  or  third  to  go, 

It  waits  for  all  the  rest  to  go;  it  is  the  last. 

When  there  are  no  more  memories  of  heroes  and 

martyrs, 
And  when  all  life  and  all  the  souls  of  men  and  women 

are  discharged  from  any  part  of  the  earth, 


Democracy  117 


Then  only  shall  liberty,  or  the  idea  of  liberty,  be  dis 
charged  from  that  part  of  the  earth, 
And  the  infidel  come  into  full  possession. 

Then  courage,  European  revolter,  revoltress! 
For  till  all  ceases,  neither  must  you  cease. 

The  poem  to  General  Grant  sounds  his  pride 
in  the  wholesome  democracy  of  America. 
This  plain,  simple-hearted  Westerner  was 
receiving  the  homage  of  the  world,  and  all 
Americans  were  thus  honored. 

What  best,  I  see  in  thee, 

Is  not  that  where  thou  mov'st  down  history's  great  high 
ways, 

Ever  undimm'd  by  time,  shoots  warlike  victory's  dazzle, 
Or  that  thou  sat'st  where  Washington  sat,  ruling  the  land 

in  peace, 
Or  thou  the  man  whom  feudal  Europe  feted,  venerable 

Asia  swarm'd  upon, 
Who  walk'd  with  kings  with  even  face  the  round  world's 

promenade; 

But  that  in  foreign  lands,  in  all  thy  walks  with  kings, 
Those  prairie  sovereigns  of  the  West,  Kansas,  Missouri, 

Illinois, 
Ohio's,  Indiana's  millions,  comrades,  farmers,  soldiers, 

all  to  the  front. 
Invisibly  with  thee  walking  with  kings  with  even  face 

the  round  world's  promenade, 
Were  all  so  justified. 

The  roots  of  this  poet's  theoretical  democ 
racy  reach  with  generous,  homely  strength 
into  the  daily  commonplace  associations  of 


u8  Walt  Whitman 

life,  and  hence  it  has  'n  it  a  vitality,  reality, 
and  beauty  which  mere  prating  of 'the  rights 
of  man  cannot  give. 

Will  you  seek  afar  off?     You  surely  will  come  back  at 

last. 
In  things  best  known  to  you  finding  the  best,  or  as  good 

as  the  best. 
In  folks  nearest  to  you  finding  the  sweetest,  strongest, 

lovingest. 
Happiness,  knowledge,  not  in  another  place,  but  in  this 

place,  not  for  another  hour,  but  this  hour. 
Man,  in   the   first  you  see  or  touch,  always   in   friend, 

brother,  nighest   neighbors — woman,  in   mother, 

sister,  wife. 
You  workwomen  and  workmen  of  the  States  having  your 

own  divine  and  strong  life, 
All  else  giving  place  to  men  and  women  like  you. 

It  is  the  man  that  interests  this  poet  as  we 
see  at  every  turn.     This  is  his  explanation : 

When  the  psalm  sings  instead  of  the  singer, 

When  the  script  preaches  instead  of  the  preacher, 

When  the  pulpit  descends  and  goes  instead  of  the  carver 
that  carved  the  supporting  desk, 

When  I  can  touch  the  body  of  books  by  night  or  by  day, 
and  they  touch  my  body  back  again, 

When  a  university  course  convinces  like  a  slumbering 
woman  and  child  convince, 

When  the  minted  gold  in  the  vault  smiles  like  the  night- 
watchman's  daughter — 

When  warrantee  deeds  loaf  in  chairs  opposite  and  are 
my  friendly  companions, 

I  intend  to  reach  them  my  hand,  and  make  as  much  of 
them  as  I  do  of  men  and  women  like  you. 


Democracy  1 1 9 


Like  all  who  are  launched  on  any  of  life's 
deep  currents,  Whitman  feels  the  broader 
stream  toward  which  he  is  tending. 

The  future  with  its  inevitable  growth  in  the 
power  of  the  people  and  in  world-wide  free 
dom  and  equality  is  as  certain  as  though  it 
were  already  the  present. 

Years  of  the  modern!    Years  of  the  unperformed! 
Your  horizon  rises.    I  see  it  parting  away  for  more  august 

dramas. 
I  see  not  America  only,  not  only  Liberty's  nation  but 

other  nations  preparing. 
I  see  tremendous  entrances  and  exits,  new  combinations, 

the  solidarity  of  races. 
I  see  that  force  advancing  with  irresistible  power  on  the 

world's  stage. 
I  see  Freedom,  completely  arm'd  and  victorious  and  very 

haughty,  with  Law  on  one  side  and  Peace  on  the 

other. 
A  stupendous  trio,  all  issuing  forth  against  the  idea  of 

caste; 
What  historic    denouements  are  these  we  so  rapidly 

approach? 
I   see   men  marching    and    countermarching    by  swift 

millions. 
I  see  the  frontiers  and  boundaries  of  the  old  aristocracies 

broken. 

I  see  the  landmarks  of  European  kings  removed. 
I  see  this  day  the  People  beginning  their  landmarks  (all 

others  give  way). 
The  performed  America  and  Europe  grow  dim,  retiring 

in  shadow  behind  me. 

The  unperformed  more  gigantic  than  ever,  advance,  ad 
vance  upon  me. 


120  Walt  Whitman 

In  "The  Mystic  Trumpeter,'*  he  appeals  to 
the  unseen  musician,  after  he  has  blown  the 
bugles  of  the  past — of  love  and  of  war,  of 
despair  and  failure,  to  "vouchsafe  a  higher 
strain  than  any  yet" — "some  vision  of  the 
future" — and  there  follows: 

O  glad,  exulting,  culminating  song! 

A  vigor  more  than  earth's  is  in  thy  notes. 

Marches  of  victory  —  man  disenthrall — the  conqueror 

at  last. 

Hymns  to  the  universal  God  from  universal  man — all  joy! 
A  reborn  race  appears  — a  perfect  world,  all  joy! 
Women  and  men  in  wisdom,  innocence  and  health  — 

all  joy! 

Riotous,  laughing  bacchanals  fill'd  with  joy! 
War,  sorrow,  suffering  gone— the  rank  earth  purged  — 

nothing  but  joy  left! 

The  ocean  fill'd  with  joy— the  atmosphere  all  joy! 
Joy!   Joy!    In  freedom,  worship,  love!    Joy  in  the  ecstasy 

of  life! 

Enough  to  merely  be!     Enough  to  breathe! 
Joy!  joy!    All  over  joy! 


America 


XI.  —  America 

Center  of  equal  daughters,  equal  sons, 

All,  all  alike  endear'd,  grown,  ungrown,  young  or  old, 

Strong,  ample,  fair,  enduring,  capable,  rich, 

Perennial  with  the  Earth,  with  Freedom,  Law,  and  Love, 

A  grand,  sane,  towering,  seated  Mother, 

Chair'd  in  the  adamant  of  Time. 

America  means  to  Whitman  the  incarnation 
of  sovereign  individuals  associated  in  perfect 
democracy.  Hence  his  adoration  of  the 
national  ideal. 

No  subject  is  the  theme  of  so  many  poems, 
none  receives  such  frequent  mention  in  all 
poems  as  this  idealized,  glorified  Union  of 
Many  in  One,  which  the  poet  sees  in  America. 

In  his  earliest  poems,  he  expresses  his  long 
ing  to  sing  the  songs  of  "These  States,"  but 
it  remained  for  his  maturer  years  to  adequately 
embody  this  rapturous  devotion  and  exalted 
expectation. 

His  demand  upon  those  who  would  be  poets 
of  America  is  exacting.  They  must  know  its 
people  in  all  their  general  traits  and  local 
peculiarities,  must  be  "possessed  of"  its  his 
tory  and  great  charters ;  must  have  rid  them- 
123 


124  Walt  Whitman 

selves  of  all  feudal  poems  and  have  "  assumed 
the  poems  and  processes  of  democracy"  ;  must 
be  ''faithful  to  things." 

His  catechism  of  this  would-be  poet  is 
searching. 

Are  you  really  of  the  whole  People? 

Are  you  not  of  some  coterie?  Some  school  of  mere 
religion? 

Are  you  done  with  reviews  and  criticisms  of  life?  Ani 
mating  now  to  life  itself? 

Have  you  vivified  yourself  with  the  Maternity  of  these 
States? 

Have  you,  too,  the  old,  ever  fresh  forbearance  and 
impartiality? 

Do  you  hold  the  like  love  for  those  hardening  to  matu 
rity?  For  the  last  born?  Little  or  big,  and  for 
the  errant? 

He  insists  that  this  poet  shall  be  alive  and 
speak  for  himself,  not  be  a  mere  amanuensis 
forworn-out  traditions.  "  Have  you  not  im 
ported  this,  or  the  spirit  of  it  in  some  ship? 
Is  it  not  a  mere  tale?  a  rhyme?  a  prettiness?" 
We  must  have  no  more  assumption  that 
"what  is  notoriously  gone  is  still  here." 

Whitman  is  not  blind  to  the  imperfections 
of  the  actual  America,  but  in  this,  as  in  all 
things/he  sees  the  present  in  the  light  of  the 
past  and  the  future,  and  wastes  no  time  in 
querulous  fault-finding) 

The  best  way  to  rid  existing  conditions  of 


America  125 


their  blots  is  to  arouse  a  sense  of  the  sacred 
inheritance  of  the  past,  the  blessed  significance 
of  the  hopes  and  plans  of  the  prophets  and  the 
mighty  possibilities  of  the  future  through  truth 
to  the  higher  principles. 

The  mission  of  the  poet  is  to  see  the  poten 
tial  ideal  in  and  through  the  present,  however 
disappointing — 

For  the  great  Idea, 

That,  O  my  brethren,  that  is  the  mission  of  poets. 

Of  these  States  the  poet  is  the  equable  man, 


The  years  straying  toward  infidelity  he  withholds  by  his 

steady  faith, 
He  is  no  arguer,  he  is  judgment  (Nature  accepts  him 

absolutely). 
He  judges  not  as  the  judge  judges,  but  as  the  sun  falling 

round  a  helpless  thing. 

As  he  sees  the  farthest  he  has  the  most  faith, 
His  thoughts  are  the  hymns  of  the  praise  of  things. 
In  the  disputes  about  God  and^eternity  he  is  silent. 
He   sees   eternity  less   like  a  play  with   prologue  and 

denouement. 
He  sees  eternity  in  men  and  women;  he  does  not  see 

men  and  women  as  dreams  or  dots. 

For  the  great  Idea,  the  idea  of  perfect  and  free  individuals, 
For  that  the  bard  walks  in  advance,  leader  of  leaders; 
The  attitude  of  him  cheers  up  slaves  and  horrifies  for 
eign  despots. 
Without    extinction    is    liberty,   without    retrograde    is 

Equality. 


126  Walt  Whitman 

They  live  in  the  feelings  of  young  men  and  the  best 

women. 
(Not  for  nothing  have  the  indomitable  heads  of  the  earth 

been  always  ready  to  fall  for  Liberty.) 

The  history  of  modern  times  has  been  the 
working-out  of  two  great  objects :  the  strength 
ening  of  individuality  and  the  development 
of  organic  unity  among  large  bodies  of  people 
in  society  and  nation. 

Unity  and  individuality — these  have  been 
the  motifs  in  great  national  and  social  dramas 
for  centuries  of  human  history,  and  indeed  for 
eras  of  animal  evolution.  These  have  seemed 
warring  for  the  ascendancy.  At  times  the  gain 
of  one  would  crush  to  insignificance  the  other. 
When  national  unity  secured  real  existence 
through  the  centralization  of  monarchy,  as  in 
France,  the  individual  appeared  lost  in  this 
larger  entity. 

In  Italy,  as  the  rivalry  of  cities  disintegrated 
all  national  life,  the  individual  blossomed  into  a 
full  development  which  enriched  the  wide  world. 
But  neither  factor  could  be  permanently  sup 
pressed.  France  has,  in  its  later  develop 
ments  with  chaos  and  tumult,  shown  that 
the  individual  must  be  felt  in  the  united  mass. 

Italy  has,  in  this  century,  proven,  with 
scarcely  less  struggle  and  pain,  that  developed 


America  127 


individuals  demand  a  noble  national  unity  for 
highest  expression. 

Germany  has,  with  like  spiral  ascent,  com 
passed  national  union  after  an  era  of  individual 
rule. 

To  combine  the  freest  growth  of  the  indi 
vidual  with  the  fullest  measure  of  social  unity 
is  the  problem  of  human  progress. 

Nature  is  pledged  to  each  alike.  Evolution 
is  bent  upon  the  union  of  these  apparent  ene 
mies.  It  will  find  means  to  perfect  the  units 
while  it  makes  equally  complete  their  union. 

Walt  Whitman  unites  in  remarkable  fashion 
the  most  intense  devotion  to  each  of  these 
conceptions.  No  one  could  assert  with  more 
uncompromising  insistence  that  the  individual 
is  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  all  things,  and  yet 
no  one  has  ever  given  such  reality  and  tran 
scending  allegiance  to  the  Larger  Whole. 

This  is  possible  because  there  is  no  contra 
diction  between  the  two.  The  best  developed 
person  is  he  or  she  who  can  enter  most  de 
votedly  into  unity  with  all. 

There  are  two  commandments,  but  the 
second  is  "like  unto"  the  first. 

The  following  is  typical  of  Whitman's  insist 
ence  upon  the  supremacy  of  the  individual: 


128  Walt  Whitman 

Fall  behind  me,  States! 

A  man  before  all  —  myself,  typical,  before  all. 

Underneath  all,  individuals, 

I  swear  nothing  is  good  to  me  which  ignores  individuals; 

The  American  compact  is  altogether  with  individuals. 

The  only  government  is  that  which  makes  minute  of 

Individuals. 
The  whole  theory  of  the  universe  is  directed  unerringly 

to  one  single  individual  —  namely,  to  You. 

Whitman's  patriotism  always  breathes  in 
large  spaces.  It  is  never  a  thoughtless,  in 
stinctive  hurrah.  Philosophy,  science,  history, 
have  all  entered  into  the  fiber  of  his  being,  and 
made  a  nature  which  responds  profoundly  to 
the  existing  order,  because  realizing  its  vast 
cosmic  significance. 

Back  of  the  America  of  to-day  with  its  ap 
proximate  freedom  he  sees  the  eternity  of  slow 
evolution  in  universe  and  planet,  the  long, 
long  ages  of  human  struggle  and  the  centuries 
of  national  development. 

The  present,  sacred  with  hard-won  inherit 
ance,  the  future  freighted  with  responsibility 
confidently  met.  These  make  of  this  poet's 
love  of  country  a  veritable  religion. 

Brain  of  the  New  World,  what  a  task  is  thine; 

To  formulate  the  Modern    .... 

By  vision,  hand,  conception,  on  the  background  of  the 

mighty  past,  the  dead, 
To  limn  with  absolute  faith  the  mighty  living  present. 


America 


Sail,  sail  thy  best,  ship  of  Democracy; 

Of  value  is  thy  freight,  'tis  not  the  Present  only; 

The  Past  is  also  stored  in  thee; 

Thou  boldest  not  the  venture  of  thyself  alone;  not  of  the 

Western  Continent  alone; 
Earth's  rtsumt  entire  floats  on  thy  keel,  O  ship,  is  steadied 

by  thy  spars, 
With  thee  Time  voyages  in  trust,  the  antecedent  nations 

sink  or  swim  with  thee, 
With  all  their  ancient  struggles,  martyrs,  heroes,  epics, 

wars,  thou  bearest  the  other  continents, 
Theirs,  theirs  as  much   as   thine,   the  destination-port 

triumphant ; 
Steer,  then,  with  good  strong  hand  and  wary  eye,  O 

helmsman,  thou  carryest  great  companions. 

The  poems  of  the  war  are  filled  with  tender, 
spirited  sympathy.  He  admires  the  sturdy 
manhood  of  it  all,  glories  in  its  heroism — 
believes  so  much  in  the  storm  that  every 
detail  in  his  realistic  descriptions  takes  on  dig 
nity  and  worth. 

In  his  war  experiences,  Whitman  got  hold 
of  life  more  intimately  than  at  any  other  point. 
His  admiration  of  women  and  of  human  affairs 
seems  a  trifle  like  hearsay  sometimes,  but  on 
the  battlefield  and  in  the  hospital  he  found 
reality.  Here  he  met  men  of  all  kinds  and  of 
all  ages,  and  how  he  loved  them ! 

There  is  no  academic  affection  here,  no 
theoretical  approval,  but  a  daily  test  under 
prosaic  and  often  loathsome  conditions  and 


130  Walt  Whitman 

the  great  heart  grew  more  gentle,  more  tender, 
more  passionately  devoted  with  each  additional 
homesick  breast  which  rested  comforted  upon 
his  own. 

It  is  hard  to  see  why  the  world  has  so 
calmly  accepted  the  opinion  that  tenderness, 
sympathy,  and  responsive  sentiment  are  pecu 
liarly  the  property  of  Avomen.  Even  our  false 
training  and  standards  cannot  do  more  than 
give  a  thin  crustiness  to  the  great-hearted 
warmth  of  nature  which  blesses  the  larger  part 
of  the  masculine  species.  When  Whitman  is 
better  known,  it  will  tend  to  remove  even  the 
external  crust. 

So  much  of  incident  enters  into  the  war 
poems  that  extracts  are  inadequate. 

The  following  lines  close  the  verses  "A 
Dirge  for  Two  Veterans" : 

O  strong  dead-march,  you  please  me! 
O  moon  immense  with  your  silvery  face,  you  soothe  me! 
O  my  soldiers  twain!    O  my  veterans  passing  to  burial! 
What  have  I  also  to  give  you? 

The  moon  gives  you  light, 
And  the  bugles  and  drums  give  you  music, 
And  my  heart,  O  my  soldiers,  my  veterans, 

My  heart  gives  you  love. 

The  close  of  the  war  left  the  poet  baptized 
with  renewed  faith  and  hope.  "The  drum  of 
war"  had  been  his  because  he  believed  in  its 


America  131 


justice  and  necessity.  "War,  red  war,"  had 
been  his  song  while  the  sacred  unity  he  adored 
had  been  in  the  balance,  but  he  rejoiced  most 
keenly  in  the  possibility  of  peace. 

The  significance  of  a  volunteer  army  deeply 
impressed  him.  In  Washington  he  watched 
the  thousands  of  thousands  of  soldiers  on  the 
final  parade,  and  then,  in  an  instant  as  he 
gazed,  they  were  gone,  absorbed  again  into 
the  currents  of  the  general  life. 

A  pause  —  the  armies  wait, 

A  million  flush'd,  embattled  conquerors  wait, 

The  world  too  waits,  then  soft  as  breaking  night  and 

sure  as  dawn, 
They  melt,  they  disappear. 

Exult,  O  lands!  victorious  lands! 

Not  there  your  victory  on  those  red,  shuddering  fields; 

But  here  and  hence  your  victory. 

Melt,  melt  away,  ye  armies  —  disperse,  ye  blue -clad 

soldiers, 
Resolve  ye  back  again,  give  up  for  good  your  deadly 

arms, 
Other  the  arms  — the  fields  henceforth  for  you,  or  South 

or  North, 
With  saner  wars,  sweet  wars,  life-giving  wars. 

A  large  standing  army  would  have  horrified 
Whitman.  He  is  bard  of  tl latent  armies,  a 
million  soldiers  waiting  ever-ready,"  never  of 
a  hired  soldiery  doomed  to  demoralizing  idle 
ness  or  blasphemous  activity. 


Walt  Whitman 


Genuine  humanity-prompted  war  has  mean 
ing  and  final  beneficence,  when  inevitable.  It 
proves  again  that  humankind  is  not  sordid  or 
commercialized  beyond  readiness  to  die  for  an 
Idea. 

The  poem,  "Rise  O  Days  from  Your 
Fathomless  Deep/'  is  a  glorification  of  the 
storm  in  nature  or  in  society.  He  craves 
primal  energy,  earth-creating  volcanoes, 
thundering  dauntlessness,  and  the  satisfaction 
which  had  formerly  come  only  from  ocean 
surge  and  Niagara  crashing  had  at  last  been 
given  by  the  magnificent  human  uprising  of 
the  war. 

But  now  I  no  longer  wait,  I  am  fully  satisfied,  I  am 

glutted, 
I  have  witness'd  the  true  lightning,  I  have  witness'd  my 

cities  electric, 
I  have  lived  to  behold  man  burst  forth   and  warlike 

America  rise, 
Hence  I  will  seek  no  more  the  food  of  the  northern 

solitary  wilds, 
No  more  the  mountains  roam  or  sail  the  stormy  sea. 

America  is  always  to  Whitman  "The 
Mother,"  and  the  most  perfect  and  profound 
of  his  poems  to  her  is  that  beginning  "Thou, 
mother,  with  thy  equal  brood." 

While  never  carpingly  critical,  he  does  not 
fail  to  see  the  national  dangers.  He  knows 


America  133 


that  "in  a  smiling  mask  death  shall  approach 
beguiling  thee,  that  a  livid  cancer  may  spread 
its  hideous  claws,  clinging  upon  thy  breasts, 
seeking  to  strike  the  deep  within." 

But  thou  shalt  face  thy  fortunes,  thy  diseases,  and  sur 
mount  them  all, 

They  each  and  all  shall  lift  and  pass  away  and  cease 
from  thee. 

One  of  his  latest  poems  celebrates  the  marvel 
of  " Election  Day."  The  most  powerful 
scene  in  America  is  not  Niagara  or  Yosemite, 
but  "America's  choosing  day" — 

The  still  small  voice  vibrating, 

The  final  ballot-shower  from  East  to  West  —  the  para 
dox  and  conflict, 

The  countless  snowflakes  falling  —  (a  swordless  conflict, 

Yet  more  than  all  Rome's  wars  of  old,  or  modern 
Napoleon's)  the  peaceful  choice  of  all. 

The  short  poems  to  the  flag  are  among  the 
choicest  gems  of  these  poems.  Nothing  trite 
is  in  them,  but  always  vital,  brimful  meaning, 
always  the  symbol  of  the  nation  and  a  nation 
committed  to  humanity  and  the  ideal. 

Thou  mental  moral  orb — thou  New,  indeed  new  Spiritual 

World! 
The  Present  holds  thee  not  —  for  such  vast  growth  as 

thine, 
For  such  unparalleled  flight  as  thine,  such  brood  as 

thine, 
The  Future  only  holds  thee  and  can  hold  thee. 


134  Walt  Whitman 

O  hasten  flag  of  man  —  O  with  sure  and  steady  step, 

passing  highest  flag  of  kings, 
Walk  supreme   to   the   heaven's  mighty  symbol  —  run 

up  above  them  all, 
Flag  of  stars!  thick-sprinkled  bunting! 


Comradeship 


XII. —  Comradeship 

Come,  I  will  make  the  continent  indissoluble; 

I  will  make  the  most  splendid  race  the  sun  ever  shone 
upon; 

I  will  make  divine  magnetic  lands 

With  the  love  of  comrades, 

With  the  life-long  love  of  comrades. 

I  will  plant  companionship  thick  as  trees  along  all  the 

rivers  of  America, 
Along  the  shores  of  the  Great  Lakes,  and  all  over  the 

prairies; 

I  will  make  inseparable  cities  with  their  arms  about  each 
other's  necks, 

By  the  love  of  comrades, 

By  the  manly  love  of  comrades. 

For  you  these  from  me,  O  Democracy,  to  serve  you, 

"ma  femme!" 
For  you,  for  you  I  am  trilling  these  songs. 

The  circle  of  Whitman's  thought  finds  its 
perfect  round  in  the  idea  of  comradeship. 

Abstract  approval  of  men  and  principles 
does  not  satisfy  him.  He  vitalizes  all  with  the 
warmth  and  color  of  personal  human  affection. 

He  has  written  no  love  poems  of  the  com 
mon  sort,  but  most  of  his  poems  are  love 
poems  of  the  most  ardent  type,  addressed, 


138  Walt  Whitman 

however,  to  anyone  and  everyone — man  or 
woman,  coarse  or  gentle,  good  or  bad. 

This  is  not  the  ordinary  love  to  man  of  the 
benevolent ;  it  is  the  passionate  fervor  of  the 
enamored. 

All  the  high-minded  writers  have  lauded 
Friendship.  In  reading  Emerson  or  Thoreau 
on  Friendship  one  wonders  if  they  are  not 
after  all  writing  of  something  too  ethereal  and 
mystical  for  this  prosaic  sphere. 

Moreover,  they  confine  their  expectations  of 
friendship  to  the  very  few,  and  even  suggest 
that  it  may  never  be  found  upon  the  earth. 
Whitman  draws  no  boundaries.  He  not  only 
does  not  limit  the  number  of  his  friends,  but 
he  expressly  invites  all  men,  even  the  unborn, 
into  the  circle  of  his  affections,  and  urges  upon 
each  a  like  inclusive  ardor.  And  yet  it  is  per 
sonal  affection  he  offers  and  asks  for  in  return. 
He  sees  a  live  oak  growing  vigorously  all  alone 
apart  from  other  trees.  He  wonders  how  it 
can  grow  and  thrive  and  "utter  joyous  leaves, " 
when  there  was  no  friendship  for  it.  He  is 
sure  he  could  not. 

When  I  peruse  the  conquer'd  fame  of  heroes  and  the 
victories  of  mighty  generals,  I  do  not  envy  the 
generals, 

Nor  the  president  in  his  presidency,  nor  the  rich  in  his 
great  house; 


Comradeship  139 


But  when  I  hear  of  the  brotherhood  of  lovers,  how  it  was 
with  them, 

How  together  through  life,  through  dangers,  odium,  un 
changing  long  and  long; 

Through  youth  and  through  middle  and  old  age,  how  un 
faltering,  how  affectionate  and  faithful  they  were, 

Then  I  am  pensive  —  I  hastily  walk  away  fill'd  with  the 
bitterest  envy. 

Whitman  keeps  the  perspective  in  human 
values.  We  are  too  apt  in  the  hurry  of  buy 
ing  and  selling,  coming  and  going  to  forget 
that  nothing  really  counts  except  the  things 
that  make  us  live  deeply  and  enjoy  truly. 

People  come  to  be  a  part  of  the  world's  fur 
niture.  They  make  the  wheels  go  'round  for 
us  in  practical  affairs.  We  forget  that  they 
are  human  souls  with  rich  capacities  for  fellow 
ship  and  sympathy.  Many  of  them  telong  to 
us  by  some  kinship  of  feeling  or  experience. 
They  would  enlarge  the  heart's  boundaries  for 
us,  if  the  stone  fences  of  our  indifference  did 
not  close  us  in. 

This  poet  would  raze  to  the  ground  all  fences. 
Conventions,  formalities,  foolishness,  which 
keep  us  from  making  the  world  electric  with 
an  all-around  hand-clasp,  he  would  away  with. 

The  measure  of  a  man  is  found  in  his  ca 
pacity  for  affection,  and  the  wider  the  range 
of  those  who  receive  this  "  ocean  of  love  freely 
poured  forth,"  the  greater  the  man. 


140  Walt  Whitman 

His  dependence  for  that  glorious  America 
of  the  future  is  upon  this  growing  "love  of 
man  for  his  comrades." 

He  dreams  that  the  adoring  admiration 
which  he  himself  possesses  for  the  typical 
American,  in  each  and  every  phase,  may  be 
come  an  enthusiasm  common  to  the  whole 
people.  The  legal  ties  of  a  common  govern 
ment  would  then  be  made  vital  by  the  glowing 
life  streams  of  fraternity. 

Man,  fulfilling  himself  in  an  organic  democ 
racy — that  democracy  incarnated  in  America 
with  her  rich  race  inheritance.  America,  the 
nation,  vivified  by  citizens  bound  to  each  other 
through  a  hearty  comradeship  and  all-pervad 
ing  personal  good  will — this  is  the  sequence 
of  Whitman's  great  conceptions. 

I  dreamed  in  a  dream  I  saw  a  city  invincible  to  the  attacks 

of  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  earth; 
I  dream'd  that  was  the  new  city  of  friends; 
Nothing  was  greater  there  than  the  quality  of  robust 

love  —  it  led  the  rest; 
It  was  seen  every  hour  in  the  action  of  the  men  of  the 

city, 
And  in  all  their  looks  and  words. 

Again  he  affirms: 

I  believe  the  main  purport  of  these  states  is  to  found  a 
superb  friendship,  exalted,  previously  unknown, 

Because  I  perceive  it  waits,  and  has  been  always  waiting, 
latent  in  all  men. 


Comradeship  141 


Probably  nothing  is  more  unique  in  Whit 
man  than  this  faith  in  the  coming  lover-bond 
to  unite  the  children  of  earth.  It  is  akin,  of 
course,  to  the  old,  old  story,  of  the  reign  of 
brotherhood  destined  to  come  to  the  earth, 
but  Whitman  gives  it  an  utterly  new  coloring, 
and  it  is  only  upon  second  thought  that  one 
associates  it  at  all  with  the  more  general  teach 
ing.  In  the  poet  it  is  alive  and  human — a 
sturdy,  wholesome  heartiness  of  good  will  that 
carries  contagion  in  its  atmosphere. 

This,  from  the  "Drum  Taps,"  is  character 
istic  of  this  spirit,  and  voices  again,  his  confi 
dence  for  America: 

Over  the  carnage  rose  prophetic  a  voice, 

Be  not  dishearten'd,  affection  shall  solve  the  problem  of 

freedom  yet; 

Those  who  love  each  other  shall  become  invincible ; 
They  shall  yet  make  Columbia  victorious. 
No  danger  shall  balk  Columbia's  lovers; 
If  need  be  a  thousand  shall  sternly  immolate  themselves 

for  me. 

The  dependence  of  Liberty  shall  be  lovers, 
The  continuance  of  equality  shall  be  comrades. 
These  shall  tie  you  and  band  you  stronger  than  hoops  of 

iron; 
I,  ecstatic,  O  partners!  O  lands!  with  the  love  of  lovers 

tie  you. 

(Were  you  looking  to  be  held  together  by  lawyers? 
Or  by  agreement  on  a  paper?  or  by  arms? 
Nay,  nor  the  world,  nor  any  living  thing,  wjll  so  cohere.) 


142  Walt  Whitman 

The  bugle  call  to  march  in  untried  paths  is 
frequently  given.  In  all  the  poems  which 
sound  the  note  of  courage  for  innovation  there 
is  always  a  strong  ring  of  joy  in  companion 
ship. 

The  poem,  "Pioneers,"  should  appeal  pecu 
liarly  to  western  citizens,  who  can  appreciate 
all  the  conditions  which  he  suggests  in  his 
symbolism.  The  comfortable,  easy-going 
paths  of  conformity  seem  tame,  indeed,  in 
the  hearing  of  this  martial  strain  urging 
advance. 

Come,  my  tan-faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons  ready. 
Have  you  your  pistols?  Have  you  your  sharp-edged  axes? 
Pioneers!  O,  Pioneers! 

For  we  cannot  tarry  here; 

We  must  march,  my  darlings,  we  must  bear  the  brunt  of 

danger, 

We,  the  youthful,  sinewy  races,  all 
The  rest  on  us  depend. 

Pioneers!  O,  Pioneers! 

O,  you  youths,  Western  youths, 

So  impatient,  full  of    action,  full  of  manly  pride  and 

friendship, 
Plain  I  see  you  Western  youths,  all  you  tramping  with 

the  foremost. 

Pioneers!  O,  Pioneers! 


Comradeship  143 


Colorado  men  are  we, 

From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great  sierras  and  the 

high  plateaus, 
From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from  the  hunting 

trail,  we  come, 

Pioneers!  O,  Pioneers! 

O,  resistless,  restless  race! 

O,  beloved  race  in  all!  O,  my  breast  aches  with  tender 

love  for  all. 

O,  I  mourn  and  yet  exult,  I  am  wrapped  in  love  for  all, 
Pioneers!  O,  Pioneers! 

O,  you  daughters  of  the  West! 
O,  you  young  and  elder  daughters! 
O,  you  mothers  and  you  wives! 

Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks  you  move  united, 
Pioneers!  O,  Pioneers! 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet. 

Far,  far  off  the  day  break  calls  —  hark !  how  loud  and  clear 

I  hear  it  wind, 
Swift,  to  the  head  of  the  army!    Swift,  spring  to  your 

places, 

Pioneers!  O,  Pioneers! 


Metaphysical  puzzles  are  usually  met  by 
Whitman  with  some  recognition  of  reality  in 
simple  experience.  No  experience  solves  so 
much  for  him  as  this  fact  of  human  affection. 

When  the  "terrible  doubt"  overtakes  him 
regarding  the  reality  of  all  about,  and  the 
verity  of  identity  beyond  the  grave,  then,  if 


144  Walt  Whitman 

he  may  but  be  near  a  friend,  he  is  "charged 
with  untold  and  untellable  wisdom,"  and  re 
quires  nothing  farther.  He  cannot  answer  the 
questions. 

But  I  walk  or  sit  indifferent,  I  am  completely  satisfied, 
He,  ahold  of  my  hand,  has  completely  satisfied  me. 

This  is  not  an  idle  fancy,  but  has  in  it  pro 
found  meaning.  No  facts  are  so  real  as  the 
inner  facts.  What  we  see  or  hear  we  may 
doubt.  What  we  feel  we  know  to  be  real. 

In  consciousness  of  love  within  we  strike 
bed  rock.  Whatever  else  is  mysterious,  upon 
that  we  may  build.  And  a  world  with  love 
in  it  is  worth  while,  even  if  a  puzzling  world. 

Another  poem  has  a  professor  instruct  his 
class  as  he  closes  a  course  in  the  great  philoso 
phies,  that  underneath  all  the  teachings  of  all 
the  great  thinkers — more  fundamental  than 
all 

The  dear  love  of  man  for  his  comrade,  the  attraction  of 

friend  to  friend, 
Of  the  well-married  husband  and  wife,  of  children  and 

parent, 
Of  city  for  city  and  land  for  land. 

In  one  of  Olive  Schreiner's  dreams  she 
shows  us  a  painter  whose  wondrous  color  as 
tonished  the  world.  "Where  do  you  get  your 
color  from?"  the  watchers  asked,  as  the  pic- 


Comradeship  145 


ture  grew  more  marvelously  red  with  rich, 
warm  glow. 

At  last  the  painter  died,  and  then  they 
searched  in  vain  for  the  pot  of  wonderful  red 
paint.  They  did  not  find  it,  but  upon  the 
breast  of  the  artist  they  found  a  scar — an  old 
scar  with  ragged  edges — and  still  they  asked : 
" Where  did  he  get  his  color  from?" 

Whatever  else  Walt  Whitman  has  tried  to 
do,  no  one  can  doubt  that  he  has  written  from 
the  inmost  sources  of  his  life.  He  has  tried 
to  be  all  that  nature  would  have  him  and  give 
back  to  his  larger  self — all  humanity — the  life- 
blood  it  loaned  him. 

Trickle  drops;  my  blue  veins  leaving! 

O,  drops  of  me!  trickle,  slow  drops, 

Candid  from  me  falling,  drip,  bleeding  drops, 

From  wounds   made    to  free    you    whence    you    were 

prison'd. 

From  my  face,  from  my  forehead  and  lips, 
From  my  breast,  from  within,  where  I  was  conceal'd, 

press  forth,  red  drops,  confession  drops, 
Stain  every  page,  stain  every  song  I  sing,  every  word  I 

say,  bloody  drops, 

Let  them  know  your  scarlet  heat,  let  them  glisten, 
Saturate  them  with  yourself,  all  asham'd  and  wet, 
Glow  upon  all  I  have  written  or  shall  write,  bleeding 

drops, 
Let  it  all  be  seen  in  your  light,  blushing  drops. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY—TEL.  NO.  642-3405 
This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall 


MAY  2  8 197Q  41 
V  70  '5AM  4k  7 


REC'D  LD  JUN  1 


KtU 


71-1 


PM4& 


-9PM5  4 


LD21A-60m-3,'70 
(N5382slO)476-A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


C  0  3 1  fl  M  7  7  5  7 


/73/ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


